Chapter Text
Rafael's mother had told him about soulmates when he was five. She said it was the universe's way of making sure everybody had somebody. He didn't ask her if his father was her soulmate. He couldn't accept a universe that cruel.
As he aged he came to find the entire thing a bit sappy - as if the only reason you could love a person was because of fate. Mami had said you can never tell when it's going to come, it just happens and you know. He was not a fan of such lack of detail. How were you supposed to tell? What were you supposed to do about it?
He was deathly afraid that whatever was going to tell him who his soulmate was - it was going to be a sign he didn't understand. He'd meet him or her and he wouldn't know until he'd already screwed it up.
Yelina told him soulmates were silly. He had asked her if Alex was hers. Neither of them had any idea but he was leaning toward no. He wished there was a way to know these things with any sort of definity. He guessed this was part of the scam. He wasn't sure soulmates were actually real any more. Just a thing Lucia Barba went with to make herself feel better. He couldn't begrudge her that.
There was a whole cottage industry built around this stuff - services to find your mate, tips to read the signs, how to decide what your sign was going to be. One year he helped prosecute a guy for fraud who convinced women their matching moles made them soulmates. The moles were as fake as the whole idea of soulmates.
A leading proponent of "Soulmate Theory" said it was different for everyone. Mami must have listened to this guy. Some people have marks, some people have words, he'd even heard a case of two people who booked the same plane ticket. Rafael found that last one to be a stretch, but who was he to judge? If it kept people from hurting each other, right?
Except, it didn’t.
He saw people who believed themselves to be soulmates destroy each other. What did it mean that the universe destined you to find someone who hurt you so much. Maybe the universe was that vindictive after all.
If they were real, he decided, there wasn't one for him. He didn't need that kind of pain. He didn't trust himself with that kind of power over another person.
Then, it started.
For the first few weeks he started in the Manhattan DA's Office he thought he had a brain tumor. He'd get these bright sparks in the corners of his eyes. Flashes of tints that never existed. Maybe he was going blind too.
A workaholic upwardly mobile ADA does not go to the doctor. He waits it out and hopes he manages to file a brief before he drops dead. Moves forward. He certainly shouldn't be spending his lunches staring at food because he can finally see the color green.
He'd never say those flashy suits were a mistake. Far from it. He'd just never been able to tell the difference before.
After a Tuesday where he'd spent the entire night staring at the contents of his wardrobe, he went to the eye doctor. He couldn't think.
The doctor didn't understand what was wrong. Soulmates are a great thing Rafael, he had said.
He hadn't made the connection. Soulmates were a figment of his mother's imagination. They weren't real. Besides, with all the people he'd met that week, who the hell knew who it was anyway? In any event, if they were real they were stupid.
In any event, if they were real, he didn't need that kind of pain.
He spent months, years trying to stop the colors. Other people spent their whole lives dealing with this?
He'd be lying if he said it hadn't come in handy. He realized some people turned colors on the stand. The pinks drain from their faces, the undertones go yellow. Sometimes their cheeks turn red.
He really hated the color red.
He hated all the colors but particularly red.
She came barging into his office, telling him to drop this case, telling him to speed up this other trial, telling him she didn't technically have the evidence to support either act. God, she drove him crazy.
It was after Lewis that he knew. The colors faded when she was kidnapped.
He refused to let himself believe in such a thing but there was no denying it. And, after all, soulmates didn't have to be romantic. They didn't have to even like each other.
They came swirling back into Technicolor when she was safe, screeching across his irises once he saw her again. Soulmates didn't have to be romantic but they certainly could also be one-sided. There was no way he was telling her anyway. She didn't need any more pain.
Imagine Rafael Barba telling you you're his soulmate. He couldn't think of anything more terrifying.
They became friends. He has no idea how this happened. He was beginning to be okay with this - it seemed the least painful of the options. He was almost, happy? He wasn't going to think about what would happen when she found her soulmate. He thinks he'd rather rip out his own eyes than watch that happen. He thinks he'd rather tear out his own heart than tell her how he feels.
When did his feelings become romantic?
He thought he hated red the most, but then Sheila happened. Sheila who fucked up this delicate balance. Sheila who forced him to comfort and do things he would never do because he saw Olivia's world turn blue.
He never wanted to see blue again.
When the Householders came into his life it was a mass of tubes and static and infinite sadness. A sadness you could never come back from. This child would never know the cruelty of this world. He'd never know the joys. He couldn't even comprehend a gray. He was not going to let these parents know the pain of red.
The pale blues at his trial were enough. He wishes he could go back. He wishes he could pretend he didn't know what he was doing. If Maggie had just been able to do it herself... but she didn't need that kind of purple.
Purple was the worst one. Purple was the final straw. The searing, blinding pain of red tempered by the enduring melancholy of blue. There's a reason he didn't mention that one to Liv. He wouldn't wish it on anyone. He'd rather claw out his own chest.
So he attempts to rip out his own soul instead.
He as good as told her, didn't he? He didn't use the words but she must know what he meant. He feels awful, still. He didn't want to inflict that kind of cruelty on anyone. Least of all her.
Turning around, walking away, all those purples and reds and blues went away. Turned back into grays, formed back into black and white.
He wishes it weren't so empty.
Not every soulmate is romantic. Just because she's his doesn't mean he's hers.