Chapter 2: The Calm Interrogation
The morning light through the grimy kitchen window felt accusatory. It highlighted every stain on the linoleum, every crumb on the counter, the ghostly outline of the jam jar from the night before. Goku stood in its glare, holding a spoonful of peanut butter in one hand and a forkful of kimchi from a leftover container in the other. He’d woken up with the specific, desperate need for both, right now, together.
He took a tentative bite. The creamy salt of the peanut butter collided with the fermented, spicy crunch of the cabbage. His brain short-circuited for a second, then a low, approving hum vibrated in his throat. He went in for another.
Sanzo, slouched at the table with a cold cup of black coffee and the untouched newspaper, watched this culinary atrocity unfold over the top of the page. His expression was a masterpiece of weary revulsion. “You’re going to ruin your stomach.”
“It’s what the baby wants,” Goku said, mouth full, as if that explained everything. Saying it out loud, even casually, sent a tiny thrill through him, followed immediately by a dart of anxiety. He glanced at the spot on the counter where the ultrasound photo still lay, hidden.
Sanzo’s jaw tightened. He hadn’t looked at it since last night. He hadn’t mentioned it. The silent, grainy rectangle was a third presence in the apartment.
A brisk knock at the door, two polite raps, broke the tension. Sanzo didn’t move. Goku, grateful for the distraction, shuffled over and pulled it open.
Hakkai stood in the hallway, a soft smile on his face and a weathered paperback in his hand. He was always a study in calm, his green eyes taking in everything with quiet efficiency. Today, he wore a simple sweater that smelled faintly of cedar and laundered cotton.
“Morning,” Hakkai said, his voice a warm balm. “I was in the neighborhood. Thought I’d return this.” He offered the book—a dog-eared collection of folklore Sanzo had loaned him months ago.
“You weren’t in the neighborhood,” Sanzo said flatly, not turning around.
Hakkai’s smile didn’t waver. He stepped inside, his gaze sweeping the disarray. It lingered on Goku, on the peanut butter jar cradled in the crook of his arm like a treasure. “Good to see you, Goku. How are you feeling? You look a bit pale.”
“I’m okay!” Goku said, too brightly. “Just, uh, trying new foods.”
Hakkai’s eyes dropped to the concoction in Goku’s hands. His politely neutral expression flickered for a microsecond. “I see. That’s… inventive.”
“It’s disgusting,” Sanzo corrected, finally folding the newspaper with a sharp crack.
“It’s good!” Goku insisted, shoving another hybrid bite into his mouth as proof. His stomach, thus far compliant, gave a subtle, questioning lurch. He ignored it.
Hakkai moved to the kitchen table, placing the book down deliberately. He didn’t sit. Instead, he leaned against the counter, directly opposite Goku. His manner was easy, but his attention was laser-focused. He watched Goku eat with the analytical concern of a biologist observing a rare, possibly ill, creature.
“Are you sure you’re alright?” Hakkai asked again, gently. “You’ve been off for a while now. Not yourself.”
“He’s fine,” Sanzo snapped, his patience a frayed thread. “Just a weird bug. Stop mothering him.”
“I’m not mothering. I’m observing.” Hakkai’s tone remained mild, but it held a new, unyielding quality. He kept his eyes on Goku, who was now avoiding his gaze, suddenly fascinated by the swirling patterns in the peanut butter. “Goku, when you were sick last week, you said it was just takeout. But it’s persisted. And now the… unique culinary experiments.” He paused, choosing his next words with surgical care. “Sanzo, you’ve been jumpier than a cat in a room full of rocking chairs. And you,” he said, turning fully to Goku, “you’re standing like you’re protecting something.”
Goku instinctively straightened up, dropping his hunched posture.
A heavy silence pressed down on the kitchen, broken only by the drip of the faulty faucet. The facedown photo on the counter seemed to pulse with implication.
Hakkai sighed, a soft, knowing sound. He stepped forward. He didn’t ask again. He simply reached out and took Goku’s free wrist, his fingers pressing lightly against the underside, finding the pulse point. His touch was cool and professional.
Goku froze, the kimchi-laden fork hovering near his lips. Sanzo went utterly still at the table.
Hakkai counted. His brows drew together slightly. He didn’t look at his watch; he just felt the rhythm under his fingertips. A resting pulse, but faster than Goku’s normal baseline. Coupled with the pallor, the odd aversions and cravings, the emotional volatility shining in Goku’s wide eyes… it painted a picture.
He’d seen it before. Not like this, never like this, but the biological signs were unmistakable.
He released Goku’s wrist. The action was slow, deliberate. He wiped his fingers on a clean corner of his sweater, a absent gesture, his mind clearly working. He looked from Goku’s terrified, guilty face to Sanzo’s stony, defensive mask.
The kind pretense melted from Hakkai’s expression, replaced by pure, sober clarity.
“Alright,” he said, his voice quiet but filling the entire room. He pulled out a chair and sat down, folding his hands on the table. He looked at them both, a mediator facing two opposing parties. “Which one of you wants to tell me what’s really going on?”
The challenge hung in the air. Goku’s lower lip trembled. He looked at Sanzo, a silent plea for someone, anyone, to say the words.
Sanzo stared back, a fortress under siege. He could lie. He could tell Hakkai to get the hell out and mind his own business. But Hakkai was their closest friend. He’d see through it. He already had.
And a treacherous, exhausted part of Sanzo was tired of holding the terrifying knowledge alone.
Sanzo closed his eyes. He heard the drip of the faucet, the rustle of Goku’s clothes as he fidgeted. The weight of the secret was a physical pressure in his chest, a stone he’d been carrying since the clinic. He let out a long, slow breath, deflating.
“He’s pregnant,” Sanzo said. The words, once released, seemed to suck all the sound from the room.
Hakkai didn’t move. His hands remained folded, his expression still. Only his eyes changed, the gentle green deepening with a rapid, cascading understanding. He looked at Goku, who gave a tiny, terrified nod, peanut butter smeared on his lip.
“I see,” Hakkai said, his voice impossibly calm. He blinked once, slowly. “That is… significant.”
A hysterical laugh bubbled in Goku’s throat. “That’s one way to put it.”
“The hospital last night?” Hakkai asked, shifting his gaze back to Sanzo.
“Ultrasound. Confirmation.” Sanzo gestured vaguely toward the counter. “It’s there. A heartbeat and everything.” He said it like an indictment.
Hakkai stood. He walked to the counter, his movements deliberate. He didn’t pick up the photo immediately. He looked at the mess around it—the dirty spoon, the kimchi container, the ghost of their chaotic morning. Then he flipped the image over.
He studied it in silence. The grainy arc, the small, white flicker in the center. His thumb traced the edge of the printout. A profound quiet settled over him, different from the tense silence of before. This was absorption.
“Six weeks?” he finally asked, without looking up.
“And two days,” Goku supplied, his voice small. “The heartbeat was really fast.”
“It would be.” Hakkai placed the photo back down, this time face-up. He turned around, leaning against the counter as if he needed the support. He looked at both of them, really looked, taking in the full panorama of their fear and shock. “Okay. First, Goku, how are you feeling? Physically, right now.”
The direct question was a relief. “Weird. Hungry but not for normal stuff. Tired. My boobs hurt like someone punched them.”
Sanzo winced, taking a sharp sip of his cold coffee.
“That’s all within the realm of normal,” Hakkai said, nodding. “The nausea?”
“Mostly mornings. Smells are the worst.”
“Good to know.” Hakkai pushed off the counter. He walked to the sink and started filling a kettle. “We’re making ginger tea. Then we’re cleaning this kitchen. You cannot live in a biohazard zone, not now.”
His practical, immediate shift into action was an anchor. Sanzo watched him, suspicion and a desperate gratitude warring in his gut. “You’re not… surprised?”
“I am astonished,” Hakkai corrected, calmly selecting a less-chipped mug from the cupboard. “Biologically, it’s staggering. But looking at you two? The pieces fit. The real question isn’t ‘how,’ it’s ‘what now.’” He glanced at Sanzo. “You’ve been sitting on this for less than a day and you already look like you’ve fought a war. That isn’t sustainable.”
“What’s your solution?” Sanzo’s question was a challenge.
“Talk. To each other. Without snapping.” Hakkai set the mug down with a soft click. “Goku, what do you feel, aside from the soreness and the hunger?”
Goku wrapped his arms around himself. “Scared. Really scared. But also… when I saw the light blinking? That was mine. Ours. It felt important.” He looked at Sanzo, pleading. “It didn’t feel like a mistake.”
Sanzo looked away, out the grimy window.
“And you, Sanzo?” Hakkai’s voice was gentle but unyielding.
“I feel trapped.” The admission came out raw, harsh. “This wasn’t the plan. Any plan. My life isn’t set up for… for this. His life isn’t.” He gestured at Goku. “He gets excited by truck commercials. He still forgets which key is for the front door.”
“I remember most of the time!” Goku protested, his eyes glistening.
“It’s not an insult. It’s a fact.” Sanzo ran a hand over his face. “This is a lifetime of responsibility that landed in our laps because of a one-in-a-billion biological fluke. Forgive me if I’m not ready to buy stuffed animals.”
The kettle began to whistle, a shrill scream in the tense space. Hakkai turned it off. The sudden quiet felt even louder.
“So don’t buy stuffed animals,” Hakkai said, pouring the water over the ginger slices. “Buy prenatal vitamins. Schedule the next appointment. Figure out the budget. One concrete thing at a time.” He brought the steaming mug to Goku, guiding his hands around it. “The big picture will terrify anyone. So look at the minute in front of you.”
Goku sniffed the ginger steam, his shoulders relaxing a fraction. He took a cautious sip.
Sanzo watched the simple act of care. The rigid anger in his spine began to soften into a deep, fatigued ache. Hakkai was right. The enormity was paralyzing.
“Who else knows?” Hakkai asked, leaning back against the counter again.
“No one,” Sanzo said.
“Good. Keep it that way until you’re both ready. This is yours.” He paused, choosing his words. “You know the world won’t see this simply. There will be talk. Stares. Unpleasant questions.”
“We got the first unpleasant question at the clinic,” Sanzo muttered, the memory of the nurse’s flat tone still grating.
“That was just the beginning.” Hakkai’s gaze was steady, honest. “You will need to be a united front. Which means,” he said, looking pointedly at Sanzo, “you need to find your footing with this faster than you want to. Your fear is valid. But it can’t be the only thing he feels from you.” He nodded toward Goku, who was staring into his tea. “He needs to know you’re in it, even if you’re furious at the situation.”
The truth of it landed heavily. Sanzo studied his own hands, the familiar lines of his palms. He thought of that furious little blink on the screen. A life. Theirs. A terrifying thread now permanently woven into the fabric of his future.
He stood up, the chair legs scraping harshly on the floor. He walked to the counter. He picked up the ultrasound photo, feeling the cheap paper stock between his fingers. He looked at it, really looked, forcing himself to see the reality and not just the problem.
The small, bean-shaped blur. The constellation of static around it. That tiny, relentless pulse he could still almost hear.
“It’s so small,” he murmured, the anger gone from his voice, replaced by pure, unadulterated awe.
Goku was at his side in an instant, ginger tea forgotten. He leaned his head against Sanzo’s shoulder, staring at the image with him. “But the heartbeat was so loud.”
Sanzo didn’t shrug him off. He let out a shuddering breath, his free hand coming up to rest, hesitantly, on the back of Goku’s neck. The touch was an answer.
Hakkai watched them, a soft, sad smile touching his lips. He turned quietly to the sink, rolling up his sleeves. The steady sound of running water and the clink of dishes being gathered began to fill the apartment, a mundane, healing rhythm. He knew the hard conversations weren't over. But for now, they were looking at the same thing. It was a start.
The rhythmic clatter of dishes in the sink was the only sound for a long while. Hakkai worked with a quiet efficiency, clearing the battlefield of their breakfast. The action gave Sanzo and Goku space to just stand there, shoulders touching, staring at the photographic proof in Sanzo’s hand.
The image was already softening at the edges from the heat of his grip.
“We need a folder or something,” Goku murmured, his breath warm against Sanzo’s sleeve. “It’s gonna get wrecked.”
“A folder,” Sanzo repeated, the mundane concern so typically Goku it almost hurt. He carefully placed the photo back on the counter, away from any potential splashes. “Right. Because that’s the priority.”
“It is to me.” Goku’s voice had a new, fragile steel in it. He kept his head on Sanzo’s shoulder. “It’s the only thing I’ve got so far.”
Sanzo didn’t have a rebuttal for that. He just let his hand, still resting on Goku’s neck, give the slightest press of acknowledgment.
Hakkai shut off the water. He dried his hands on a towel, the domestic task complete. “The tea should help the nausea. Sip it slowly. I’ll leave the ginger here.” He placed the knobby root on the cleared counter. “You should call for a proper obstetric appointment today. Not the clinic. Someone with experience in… unique presentations.”
The word ‘unique’ hung in the air, a polite euphemism for the medical odyssey they were facing.
“How do we even find that?” Sanzo asked, the logistical mountain looming. “Just call and say ‘hello, my boyfriend is a genetically rare male who’s spontaneously pregnant, are you taking new patients?’”
“We’ll figure it out,” Hakkai said, his calm unwavering. “I know a nurse at University Hospital. I can make a discreet inquiry.” He moved toward the door, giving them their apartment back. “In the meantime, eat what you can keep down, Goku. Rest. Try to talk. Actually talk.” His gaze settled on Sanzo, meaningfully. “The fear won’t shrink unless you take it out and look at it.”
After the door clicked shut behind him, the silence felt different. Less charged, more exhausted. The ghost of Hakkai’s pragmatic energy lingered, a blueprint for how to proceed.
Goku finally pulled away, retrieving his cooling tea. He took a sip, his nose wrinkling. “It tastes like spicy dirt.”
“It’s supposed to help,” Sanzo said, automatically. He rubbed his eyes, the fatigue bone-deep. The adrenaline of the secret was gone, leaving a hollowed-out certainty.
“I know.” Goku took another dutiful swallow. He wandered to the fridge and opened it, staring into the light with a blank expression. “Nothing sounds good again.”
“You just ate peanut butter and kimchi.”
“That was then.” He closed the door. He leaned against it, looking young and lost. “What did he mean, ‘unpleasant questions’?”
Sanzo leaned against the counter, mirroring his posture across the room. “He means people are going to see a pregnant person who presents as male. They’ll stare. They’ll assume things. They might say shit.” He kept his voice flat, factual. “At the store. On the street. At appointments. The clinic nurse was just the opening act.”
Goku’s hand drifted to his stomach, still perfectly flat under his hoodie. He tried to imagine a curve there, and himself with it, walking down the street. His brain skittered away from the image, a lizard avoiding hot sand. “Oh.”
“Yeah. ‘Oh.’” Sanzo pushed off the counter. He couldn’t stand still. He paced to the window, looking down at the grimy street three floors below. “It’s not just about us being ready for a baby. It’s about the world being ready for… this.” He gestured back toward Goku.
“We could hide inside,” Goku offered, weakly.
“For seven more months?” Sanzo shot him a look. “You’d go insane. And what about after? Do we hide the kid, too?” He saw the flinch on Goku’s face and regretted his tone, but not the truth of the words. This was the jagged edge of their reality, the part that wasn’t just about heartbeats and folders.
Goku slid down to sit on the floor, his back against the fridge. He drew his knees up. “I didn’t think about that part. I was just thinking about the heartbeat.”
“I know.” Sanzo’s voice softened. He left the window and sat on the linoleum across from him, their socked feet almost touching in the narrow kitchen aisle. “That’s the problem. I’m thinking about everything else.”
“So what do we do?” Goku asked again, the question smaller this time.
Sanzo was quiet for a long minute. He picked at a thread on his sweatpants. “We do what Hakkai said. One thing. Today, we find a doctor. That’s the only task.” He met Goku’s eyes. “And we… talk. About what we’re actually feeling, not just yelling it.”
Goku nodded, wrapping his arms around his shins. “You feel trapped.”
“I do.” Sanzo didn’t look away. “And it makes me angry at the universe, which feels stupid, because it’s not the kid’s fault. And then I feel guilty for being angry, which makes me more pissed off. It’s a loop.”
The raw honesty was a new kind of vertigo. Goku processed it, his brow furrowed. “I’m scared I’ll be terrible at it. That I’ll drop it, or forget to feed it, or love it wrong.” He chewed his thumbnail. “But when I’m not scared, I’m… curious. What will it look like? Will it like the same foods? Will it have your scowl?”
A faint, almost invisible smile touched Sanzo’s mouth. “God, I hope not.”
“See?” Goku said, a tiny light returning to his eyes. “That’s a thing. I’m curious about its scowl.”
Sanzo huffed a quiet breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. It was a release of pressure. The loop, for a second, was broken. They were just two people on a dirty floor, talking about a potential scowl.
“We should call,” Sanzo said, not moving.
“In a minute.”
They sat in the quiet kitchen. Downstairs, a car alarm started, then choked off. The familiar rhythm of their neighborhood, oblivious. Goku’s stomach gave a low, unexpected gurgle. Not nausea. Hunger. Plain, simple hunger.
“Toast,” he announced, decisively. “Just butter. That sounds okay.”
“That’s a normal craving,” Sanzo observed, hauling himself up. He offered a hand down to Goku.
“Don’t ruin it.” Goku took the hand, pulling himself up. His grip was strong, familiar. He didn’t let go immediately once he was standing. “You’ll make the calls?”
“I’ll make the calls.” Sanzo squeezed his fingers once before letting go, turning to fetch the bread. It was an agreement. A minute, concrete task within the chaos.
As the toast browned, filling the kitchen with a warm, safe smell, Goku picked up the ultrasound photo again. He traced the outline of the sac with a careful finger. The fear was still there, a cold pool in his gut. But beside it now was a tiny, defiant spark of ownership. Mine, he thought, not as a plea, but as a fact.
Sanzo watched him, the butter knife poised over the warm bread. He saw the focused expression on Goku’s face, a kind of determination he usually only saw when Goku was mastering a new video game level or hunting down the last dumpling in a shared takeout box. It was a different kind of focus now. Deeper.
Maybe, Sanzo thought, spreading the butter so it melted into golden pools, that focus was what they’d need to survive this. Not his own grim pragmatism, but Goku’s stubborn, naive ability to zero in on a single, small, good thing—a heartbeat, a potential scowl, a piece of buttered toast—and cling to it like a lifeline.
He slid the plate across the counter to Goku. “Eat.”
Goku took a crunchy bite, his eyes closing in simple pleasure. For a moment, everything was just this: the taste of butter, the weak sun through the window, the photo beside his elbow.
Then Sanzo’s phone buzzed, vibrating against the Formica. A calendar reminder, stark and impersonal: Car Inspection - 3 PM.
The outside world rushed back in, a tidal wave of mundane obligations and future, unimaginable appointments. Goku opened his eyes, catching the shift in Sanzo’s posture.
“One thing,” Sanzo said to himself, silencing the phone. His voice was a low vow. He picked up his own phone, his thumb hovering over the contacts. “One thing at a time.”
He scrolled, found Hakkai’s number, and hit call. The toast was halfway to Goku’s mouth, forgotten, as he watched Sanzo’s face slip into its familiar mask of resolved, impatient focus. The first real step was a ringtone, echoing in the quiet room.