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“This is homophobic,” Rafael hissed, looking around with a wary eye.
Sonny, bedecked in orange and blue complete with a giant foam finger, rolled his eyes. “It’s a baseball game, Raf,” he said patiently.
“Hence my point,” Rafael muttered.
Sonny heaved the sigh of a very patient man at the very, very end of his rope. “Need I remind you that this was your idea?” he said with forced levity.
Rafael sniffed. “Only because you refuse to go to Pride.”
“Cops don’t belong at Pride,” Sonny said, a little darkly. “Especially not on the 50th anniversary of Stonewall.”
Rafael’s expression softened, just slightly. “You’re not wrong,” he said, “and you’re a better cop than most for admitting it.”
His expression instantly soured when he was jostled from behind by a middle-aged lady who was glaring at them both. “Keep it moving,” she told them, “or we’re not gonna get rings.”
“They said there’s enough for the first 15,000,” Sonny assured her with his most disarming smile, but her scowl didn’t budge.
“And I wanna be one of those 15,000,” she told them.
Rafael glanced at Sonny. “Rings?” he asked in an undertone.
“Yeah, replica rings from the 1969 World Series,” Sonny said, a little eagerly. “It’s our 50th Anniversary.”
“Ours?” Rafael repeated, amused, but Sonny wasn’t deterred.
“Yeah, the Mets,” he said. “The Miracle Mets.”
Rafael glanced at him but appeared to decide against making fun of him. “Well, congratulations,” he said instead, though he couldn’t help but ask, “Was that the last time you won?”
“No, we won in 86,” Sonny told him. Rafael’s lips twitched and Sonny scowled. “And no, I don’t care when the last time was that the Yankees won.”
“As long as you’re aware it was significantly more recently,” Rafael said with a chuckle.
They spent the rest of the line into Citi Field in relative silence, though Sonny grinned when they made it to security and were each handed a replica ring in a box. “Victory,” he told Rafael, who laughed.
“Am I a bad person if I said I was hoping the lady behind us wouldn’t get one?” he asked as they took the stairs up to their seats.
Sonny laughed. “Nah, she would’ve deserved it,” he said easily. Once they made it to their seats, he glanced around. “Good seats,” he said, and Rafael made a face.
“They’re fine,” he said dismissively, “though I can’t help but note the lack of Pride things in the stadium.”
“The Coca-Cola sign is lit up in Pride colors,” Sonny pointed out in what he clearly thought was a helpful way.
Rafael gave him a look. “Ah, capitalism,” he said dryly.
“Shh,” Sonny shushed him, somewhat distractedly, “they’re doing a whole thing on Tom Seaver, see?”
He pointed rather unnecessarily at the Jumbotron and Rafael made a face. “Wish you’d look at me like that,” he muttered mournfully.
“Pitch 25 games on the road to the World Series and win the Cy Young Award and maybe I would,” Sonny said cheerfully, though he softened it by pulling Rafael to him and kissing his temple. “Hey, you want any food? I was thinking about getting nachos.”
“Get me a beer, would you?” Rafael said.
Sonny laughed. “Well that was a given, but you want anything else with the beer?”
Rafael considered it. “Another beer?”
And Sonny just rolled his eyes and laughed again.
Still, two exceedingly overpriced beers later, and after they had once again settled in at their seats, with a half hour still to go before the game even started, Rafael leaned his head against Sonny’s shoulder. “This isn’t so bad,” he said, and Sonny grinned.
“Coming from you, that’s like saying this is the best thing ever.”
“Well, not quite,” Rafael said, “but I know a way it will be.”
He turned to Sonny, holding the box the replica World Series ring was in. “I know you think I picked this at random, but you really need to give me more credit,” he said, and Sonny stared at him.
“Raf, what—”
“I need you to take your foam finger off,” Rafael said in lieu of an answer, and Sonny bristled.
“Look I’m at a baseball game, I’m gonna wear it if I wanna—”
“Sonny,” Rafael interrupted. “I need your left hand.”
Any further protest Sonny might’ve made died when Rafael got out of his seat and down on one knee. “Oh my God, Raf—”
“It’s fifty years of Pride, Rafael started, a little breathlessly. “And it’s fifty years of your stupid baseball team winning.” He took a deep breath. “And soon enough, I’ll be fifty. And what I want more than anything in this world is fifty years with you.”
Sonny was looking at him like there was nothing else in the world that mattered and Rafael smiled at him. “I can’t guarantee fifty years. Hell, in our line of work, I can’t even guarantee five. But every year I have left I want to spend with you, if you’ll let me.”
Sonny shook his head but Rafael knew that he wasn’t saying no, that he was just dumbfounded at what Rafael had been planning since he found out six months before that the Mets would be celebrating the fiftieth anniversary of their win this weekend.
“The Mets had their miracle in 1969 but I found mine in 2014,” he told Sonny, his voice thick. “Dominick Carisi Jr., I love you. Will you marry me?”
“You seriously planned it like this?” Sonny asked, still staring down at him and the outstretched ring box. “But you hate the Mets.”
Rafael shrugged. “I’ll admit they’re not my favorite team,” he hedged, and the corners of Sonny’s mouth twitched, though Rafael didn’t let him interrupt with whatever lawyer joke he doubtlessly wanted to make, “and obviously if I had my way we’d either be surrounded by rainbow flags or else at a nice restaurant right about now, but when I started planning this, I realized it couldn’t be about me, or for me. It’s for you, and it’s about how I always want to make you happy. And at the end of the day—” He glanced around the stadium, slightly bemused. “At the end of the day, this is what makes you happy.”
“No,” Sonny said, his voice low and a little breathless, “you’re what makes me happy.”
He tugged Rafael up from where he still knelt on the ground and kissed him fiercely, holding onto him as if he too wanted nothing more than this for the next 50 years.
Rafael was grinning when he pulled back, just a little. “So is that a yes?” he asked mildly.
“Fuck, of course yes,” Sonny said, and kissed him once more.
The few people who were seated in their section broke into scattered applause, and Sonny’s grin could’ve lit the entire stadium.
And even though Rafael would never be a Mets fan, he knew it was worth it for that smile on Sonny’s face alone.
Well, for that smile, and for the promise of fifty years still to come.