Archive of Our Own

Your wide eyes are the only light I know
from extinguished constellations
— Pablo Neruda

It was late.

Sonny stifled a yawn. They’d been here, in Rafael’s office, for hours now, reviewing obscure law statutes and attempting to brainstorm before court at 10am. Sneaking a look at his watch, he realized through bleary eyes that it was past two in the morning. 

Later, Sonny would blame his next words on the fact that he was tired. That his defenses were down, that he wasn’t thinking clearly. Anything other than actually thinking it was a good idea. 

“I miss this,” he blurted out suddenly, and instantly regretted it. It wasn’t like he didn’t mean it—the problem was, he did mean it. He meant it very much. 

Rafael looked up at him sharply; the late hour hadn’t seemed to dull his senses, Sonny noted.

“Miss what?” he said. 

Well, he’d already said too much. Why not more? 

“This,” Sonny said, gesturing around them. They were, as they so often had been, sitting around Rafael’s table—jackets discarded, ties loosened, sleeves rolled up; papers strewn about, empty mugs perched precariously close to the table’s edge. The room smelled faintly of coffee, and the warmth and stillness of the air had made him sleepy, and too honest. He leaned back lazily against the chair, studiously avoiding looking at Rafael as he waited for his response. Unable to sit still, he ran a hand through his hair, fidgeting.

Sonny had spent so much time in this office over the last year, he reflected now, as he had shadowed Rafael and prepared to take the bar. Over time, their study sessions had turned into something else. At least—he thought they had. He wasn’t totally sure. What he was sure of was that in the quiet intimacy of this office, he had begun to feel a sense of belonging in Manhattan. He’d also, beautifully and problematically, begun to feel a sense of belonging with Rafael. When they were here together, comfortable and unguarded, it felt like they were the only two people in the world; that disbelief had been temporarily suspended; that anything was possible. 

Or he could be making it all up in his head. At first he’d thought his crush was a professional one, and it had started that way—all he’d wanted to do was learn from someone whose work he’d long admired, whose reputation in the courtroom was known in all five boroughs. Alas, Sonny’s feelings had turned distressingly romantic after their first real conversation; he’d left the interaction feeling dazed by the immediate and inexplicable connection between them. 

Since then, he hadn’t known what to do with this thing he felt. He had first tried to ignore it, to push his emotions down, down, down where he could no longer access them, hoping they would fade away. It hadn’t worked. Even after he’d come to terms with having feelings for Rafael, he tried to keep them surface-level. He hadn’t wanted to analyze them too closely, because having these feelings for his mentor—his friend—felt too dangerous. 

But here they were, at this moment, in this office, and Sonny still couldn’t look at Rafael. Except he had to, because the silence stretched on, and he didn’t know why. 

Looking up, he saw Rafael staring at him intently, quietly. Ever the oral fixator, he was chewing on his pen, a habit Sonny had noticed only happened when Rafael was trying to figure out the solution to a complex legal puzzle. Puzzles take many forms.

Their eyes met. Rafael stopped chewing. The air felt thick in the warm silence of the room, and while something was clearly passing between them, Sonny couldn’t tell what it was.

“I think we should call it a night,” Rafael finally broke the silence. His tone was soft. “Reconvene in the morning. We’re both about ready to fall asleep.” 

Could I fall asleep next to you? Just this once? You feel like home. 

The words could have easily rolled off of Sonny’s tongue, loosened by exhaustion and recklessness, but he held back. Instead, he nodded, blinking to break the stare. “Yeah, okay.”

They began to quietly clean up the table then, shuffling papers together, collating and sorting by page number, careful not to mix documents or compromise Rafael’s precise organization. They’d almost finished tidying up without incident when it happened: in the most clichéd way possible, their hands brushed against each other as they reached for adjacent papers, and Sonny gasped, a jolt of energy shooting through him, dizzying his senses.

They both froze in place, the backs of their hands still touching in midair. Sonny held his breath as they remained momentarily suspended in time. It was at this moment that Sonny knew he wasn’t imagining it. There was really something here, something Rafael felt, too. Why else would he have reacted this way? As if he were equally affected by their sudden proximity? 

Just as Sonny began to contemplate grabbing Rafael’s hand, Rafael pulled away quickly, almost as if he had been burned. The energy in the room shifted instantly.

“I can finish this up alone, Detective. Go home and get some sleep.” Rafael’s voice had a familiar edge to it, though Sonny also noticed that it sounded strained.

Stung, Sonny almost argued—but once again, thought better of it. He knew when he was being dismissed, and despite… whatever had happened between them just now, he also knew that this was Rafael shutting the proverbial door in his face and putting those impenetrable walls back up. Sonny couldn’t help but feel slighted.

He cleared his throat in an attempt to shake himself back into the present moment. 

“Yeah, sure, okay. Counselor,” he said, his formality showing he’d gotten the message. Grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair, he put it on and walked over to the door. Opening it, he looked back at Rafael one last time. Rafael was still leaning over the coffee table, shoving papers into folders with uncharacteristic haste. “And …” Sonny wasn’t sure what he wanted to say. So, in the end, he said almost nothing. “See you tomorrow.” 

He walked out of Rafael’s office and shut the door behind him, not bothering to wait for a response. He emerged from One Hogan Place into the chilly darkness and decided to walk home, even though it was far, even though it was the middle of the night. He needed to clear his head.

As he walked, he replayed tonight’s events again and again. What had happened back there? Did Rafael feel something for him? Was there something there? Had he imagined it? What the fuck, Sonny. Sonny knew he was probably being delusional, but the moment had felt so charged. 

Shaking his head, he admonished himself: Come on, Sonny, get it together. This crush is getting out of control. There is nothing going on between the two of you, and you need to move on.

He arrived at his apartment slightly after three. He undressed quickly, climbed into bed, and was asleep almost before his head hit the pillow. He slept deeply and did not dream.

Rafael wasn’t sure what had come over him.

His carefully constructed reality didn’t include time nor energy for romantic entanglements. Definitely not romantic entanglements with colleagues. Even if said colleague was six feet tall, lanky and toned, with blue eyes like the sky and oh-so-kissable lips. Especially not then.

After too little sleep, Rafael found himself once again sitting in his office. Instead of preparing for court, he was working on his third cup of coffee and chewing on his pen. He was deep in thought, not about court, but about the events of the previous night.

He’d known about Sonny’s schoolboy crush on him for years, of course he had. Countless times he’d caught those wide eyes watching him when he thought Rafael wouldn’t notice. Saw the soft way that Sonny smiled just for him. The way he always showed up with coffee and a grin, even when he had only stopped by to drop off papers. The way he blushed when Rafael praised his legal acumen. The way he’d sought that praise. The way, over time, that Rafael had softened his own rough edges about Sonny’s earnest eagerness to prove himself. The way Rafael wanted to praise him, to tell him he’d done well (a good boy? ), to see him beam like a happy puppy. To be the one who made him feel that way. Made him feel good.

Fuck, he thought to himself.

Rafael Barba, esteemed prosecutor and romance-averse workaholic, had it bad.

He really did not want to admit it. It was a complication he could not afford. 

It had gotten to the point, however, where he could no longer deny his feelings. When Sonny had begun to wax poetic about missing their time together, he hadn’t known how to react. For a man who prided himself on always having a witty comeback, an acerbic retort, he found himself disturbingly without words. What was he supposed to say? I miss this too? The idea of being so vulnerable was simply unfathomable to him. That wasn’t his style. He’d made a career based on carefully restrained emotions, a calculated coldness. He didn’t have time for feelings. 

Instead, he’d sat there, staring at this man he felt far too much for, wondering how he’d ended up in this predicament. In an ironic turn of events, Sonny had caught him staring. Rafael could only think to divert—instead of acknowledging what Sonny had said, Rafael redirected, suggesting that they simply go home for the night. It was after two in the morning; they were tired, they were not in their right minds. The conversation had turned dangerous. 

They were teetering on the edge of something and Rafael was not ready.

He’d thought they’d averted disaster, but then. Then.

When their hands had touched, Rafael had panicked. He wasn’t proud of that reaction, but he didn’t know what else to do. They’d never touched before last night, not even incidentally. He’d been shocked by the intensity of the physical reaction in his body. He’d frozen in place—they both had—and he sat there, staring at their hands, feeling the warmth of Sonny against his skin. After several moments, he had to remind himself to breathe.

Then, he’d done what he always did when someone got too close: he put on the mask of professionalism, pulled his hand back, and told Sonny to leave.

He’d known instantly that he’d hurt Sonny. His normally bubbly, effusive (his? Good lord) detective had winced and instantly clammed up. Rafael could see the confused look in his eyes, which had quickly turned to resignation. Sonny said goodbye and quietly left, not bothering to stick around for any response Rafael might have had. And he’d been right to expect none, Rafael lamented. He’d shut himself off already; he’d had no response.

Sighing loudly, Rafael threw his pen—now mangled from so much chewing—down on the desk. Clasping his hands behind his head, he leaned back in his chair and squeezed his eyes shut. He felt a tension headache beginning behind his forehead. He had to get his head together for court, and instead he was sitting here pathetically pining for a colleague, his heart betraying him. 

He felt frustrated. So damn frustrated at his sudden inability to stifle his emotions. The real trouble was that deep down, a small voice said, he didn’t want to stifle his emotions. And that thought, said in the high-pitched voice of a child, scared the shit out of him.

All in one moment, the gravity of the situation hit him. He wanted Sonny, and he was certain that Sonny wanted him. As much as Rafael had pushed everyone who had tried to get close to him away for most of his adult life, he still wanted what everyone wants, at their core: to be loved. To be wanted. To be needed. It felt like weakness, but oh, how he wanted it. And now, the opportunity to have this thing he wanted so much was right in front of him. 

How does a person open themselves to possibility when they’ve spent half a lifetime closed off to that very scenario? Rafael had no idea. He’d had his defensive walls up for so long. His last relationship had been more than a decade ago, after which he’d instead chosen to be married to his work. At least with work, he’d reasoned, he could control the outcome. Avoid getting hurt.

Well, okay. So he wanted to pursue Sonny. Trying that thought out for size, he still felt terrified, but he also felt energized. This was a puzzle, a game, and he liked both of those things. He was good at puzzles and games. This was a strength. He could work with that. But how? 

He began by scanning his surroundings. The books on his massive bookshelf stared back at him, and he wondered stupidly if he could find inspiration in any of them. Unlikely, he thought, seeing as they were all law textbooks, reference guides, and journals. Except—

He’d noticed a small, thin volume tucked into the corner of the lower right shelf. It didn’t look at all like the hefty tomes surrounding it. Rafael got up and turned quickly to the shelf behind him, extracting the small book and stopping to look at the cover. The text he held in his hands was Cien sonetos de amor , a collection of poems by Pablo Neruda. It was a Spanish edition, a gift from his mother one Christmas, hoping to snap him out of his perpetual bachelorhood. Or maybe to make him cry. Knowing Lucia Barba, the jury was still out on that one.

Sitting on the couch on the other side of the room, Rafael opened the book and began to skim. As he fell more and more under Neruda’s spell, something broke open slightly inside his chest, and an idea began to form in his head. He already knew that the chance he’d simply walk up to Sonny and confess his feelings was almost zero. He hadn’t the faintest idea how to let Sonny know without making an absolute fool of himself. But maybe—maybe poetry could be the middleman. Poetry could say it better than he ever could. 

Chewing on his lower lip, Rafael considered whether this was a good idea. The more he thought about it, the better it sounded. Since he had to stop by the precinct after his arraignments that morning, he could put the plan into action then. 

Later, as he headed to the precinct, he made himself consider what his endgame was. He decided that he was doing this for himself; to encourage himself to communicate his feelings, even anonymously. It was possible that Sonny would guess it was him, but he wasn’t sure he would. He couldn’t decide whether it would be worse if he did, or if he didn’t.

Entering the precinct, Rafael was relieved to find the room almost entirely empty. He could see Liv in her office behind a closed door, but the bullpen was mercifully quiet. He couldn’t believe his luck: he was alone. 

On his way to Liv’s office, he made sure to walk by Carisi’s desk. Setting down a folder for Sonny to review later, he surreptitiously stuck a post-it note to the upper right side of the table’s surface, just in front of the base of the small lamp. He continued on, too nervous to glance around, but he very much hoped that no one had seen him. He was taking a real risk here, creating his own crime scene and leaving forensic evidence for Carisi to find. He knew that what he was doing was risky, but that was part of the thrill.

Sonny returned to his desk just after seven. The case they’d caught was a rough one—it involved a child—and days like this just took it all out of him. 

That’s when he noticed it: a pale pink post-it note sitting on his desk, just in front of his lamp, illuminated in the dim light of the empty bullpen by the glow of the warm bulb. How long had that been there? Had he written it and forgotten? Man, he needed more sleep. 

Picking up the note, Sonny inspected it closely. In a small, tidy scrawl he didn’t recognize were several lines of text, written in Spanish. He didn’t know Spanish beyond a few simple words and wasn’t sure what he was looking at, but if he were to hazard a guess, it looked like poetry:

mientras que el cruel amor me cercaba sin tregua
hasta que lacerándome con espadas y espinas
abrió en mi corazón un camino quemante (1)

Sonny wracked his brain. He certainly hadn’t written this, so who had? Why was it on his desk? How did it get there? Should he be worried? His years working with victims at SVU had instilled in him a healthy dose of paranoia, though at heart, he was still a hopeless romantic. Since there was no indication of malice, he decided, he’d try to see it for what it was: a compelling mystery. 

“Hi Sonny, nice to see you again.” 

Carmen, Rafael’s assistant, smiled up at him as he entered the room. Sonny smiled back at her, one of the big smiles with dimples, hoping his grin belied the nerves swirling around in his body. 

“You too, Carmen. I brought you coffee. Latte, nonfat milk, right?” 

She smiled again, taking the cup from his outstretched hand. “You always remember,” she said bashfully, and Sonny really hoped she wasn’t making heart eyes at him.

Changing the subject, he asked her, his voice as steady as possible: “Is the counselor in?” 

“He is,” she replied. “I haven’t seen you around here much lately, I’m sure he’ll be glad to see you. Go on in, he doesn’t have anything on his calendar right now.”

“Thanks,” he smiled one more time for good measure, walking toward Rafael’s closed door. 

He hadn’t exactly been avoiding Rafael. Not, you know, exactly. Sonny had barely had a moment to breathe over the last few weeks. The caseload at work had been relentless—and, if he were being entirely truthful with himself, he’d found himself regularly volunteering for overtime. Ever since that night in Rafael’s office, he’d regressed into a previous version of himself, one he hadn’t seen since the end of his last relationship, such as it was. The mopey, pessimistic, heartsick version of Sonny Carisi wasn’t his favorite guy to hang out with, and he was willing to go to great lengths to avoid him. His antidote to coming home to his cold, empty apartment every evening had been to spend all of his time working. It wasn’t fun, but it did the trick: he was distracted, and in the few hours he was home each day, he was too exhausted to think. 

The only thing keeping him from spiraling completely was the ongoing mystery of the post-it notes. He’d received two additional notes, both when he was least expecting it: one, last week, he’d found on the inside of his locker door in the squad room. He didn’t keep a lock on it, so wasn’t bothered by the intrusion, but he was disconcerted, and more than curious, by its appearance. It was in the same script as last time, though this time on a pale blue post-it: 

​Amor, cuántos caminos hasta llegar a un beso,
qué soledad errante hasta tu compañía! (2)

The other note had appeared this week, stuck to the screen of his laptop, so that when he opened it up first thing in the morning there was a pale green post-it staring back at him. When he saw it, he quickly sucked in a breath, glancing furtively around him to make sure that no one had noticed. Amanda and Fin were, thankfully, engrossed in a conversation about a video game, and he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Turning his attention back to the note, a thrill ran through him when he saw his admirer’s familiar handwriting. It was another in the series of excerpts, still in Spanish, still something Sonny couldn’t understand: 

Tengo hambre de tu boca, de tu voz, de tu pelo
y por las calles voy sin nutrirme, callado,
no me sostiene el pan, el alba me desquicia,
busco el sonido líquido de tus pies en el día. (3)

He knew that he could easily plug these quotes into a search engine, or an online translator, and instantly know what they said. But something told him that part of the intent of the enigmatic notes was for him to figure it out himself. He’d spent nights alone in the bullpen poring over a Spanish dictionary, but hadn’t made much progress. He’d thought he’d have an easier time given his years of Italian in high school, but was embarrassed to find out that he’d retained very little from that era. He really, really wasn’t a very good Italian. His Nonna would be ashamed.

Last night, alone at work, he’d laid out all of the notes in front of him in a single line. Someone was trying to send him a message, and he desperately wanted to understand it. It was the only thing keeping him afloat, the only thing he wanted more of, and he wasn’t having much luck figuring it out on his own. What he really needed, he thought, was someone to teach him Spanish. A real person, someone who could help him understand the grammar and how to put sentences together. Then, it hit him like a lightning bolt: Rafael.

In an instant, his body was abuzz with energy. If Rafael were willing to give him Spanish lessons, they’d have a real reason to spend time together again. He felt pathetic thinking about how much he wanted this, and it was probably a terrible idea, but he couldn’t put the idea back in the box. His mind futurecast to late-night lessons in Rafael’s office, sitting close together on the couch, sleeves rolled up, elbows nearly touching as they went over the finer points of the subjunctive mood— STOP IT, SONNY , he scolded himself. He had to rein it in. This wasn’t going to be some love story, they weren’t going to end up making out in One Hogan Place just because Rafael had agreed to teach him enough Spanish to translate the poems. Rafael had made his intentions clear weeks ago; Sonny had to let go. And maybe, he thought—just maybe—finding out whoever it was that had been leaving these notes would help him move on.

Which is how he found himself standing outside of Rafael’s office, near quitting time on a Thursday, his hands shaking slightly as he found the courage to knock. He wasn’t sure why he was so nervous. They’d interacted plenty of times since that night at the precinct and in the courtroom, and although Sonny had felt awkward, they’d easily slid back into the comfortable professionalism they’d practiced with each other for years. It felt almost normal, except that Sonny wasn’t sure that anything between them would ever feel normal again.

Rapping on the door three times in quick succession, he heard Rafael call “Come in, Carisi.” Flushing at already having been found out, Sonny tried to stop the rising heat in his cheeks as he opened the door and entered the room. Rafael was sitting at his desk, surrounded by papers. 

“Hi,” Sonny said. “I, uh, brought you coffee.” 

He handed the cup over to Rafael—he knew he was partial to Italian espresso these days, so had gone out of his way to procure it from a place that did traditional Italian cappuccinos.

“Thank you,” he said, taking the cup and sipping it slowly. “This is delicious,” he muttered under his breath, and Sonny smirked internally. He knew how to butter this man up.

“So,” Rafael continued, setting his coffee down on the desk. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“So yeah, uh, I don’t have a work-related reason to be here. I have something I wanna ask you.”

Rafael raised an eyebrow. “Yes, Detective? What is it?”

Sonny took a deep breath. “Well, see, uh—” great start, dumbass, he chided himself. “Would you be interested in giving me Spanish lessons?”

A look of genuine surprise came over Rafael’s face, an expression he didn’t often wear. Sonny thought he could see a flash of something else in Rafael’s eyes, but it was gone almost as soon as it had appeared. Sonny saw him considering the request, and he began to feel nervous.

“Is there a specific reason why you want to learn Spanish?”

Sonny felt his ears turning red. “No, well, I—” oh my God, just say something. “I just really, you know, think it would help me on the job.” He knew how stupid that sounded, but he had to hope that it sounded somewhat plausible. Just plausible enough to make Rafael agree.

“And we’d, what, meet at least a couple of times per week?”

Oh, he was actually considering this. Yes. “Yeah, you know, whatever works with your schedule, I know you’re really busy, I don’t expect for you to devote so much time to—”

Rafael interrupted him. “Sonny. It’s okay. I’ll teach you Spanish. I’d like to.”

Sonny stood in stunned silence at Rafael’s use of his first name. He’d only used it a couple of other times, usually preferring to stick to the formal use of his last name, drawing a figurative line in the sand between the professional and the personal. He wasn’t sure why Rafael had chosen to use it now, but he was absolutely not complaining. 

“Oh, I mean, okay, that’s great,” he stammered, giving Rafael a grin that he hoped would be distracting enough to compensate for his lack of eloquence.

If Rafael noticed him struggling, his face betrayed nothing. “Alright,” he said briskly. “Give me a few days to put something together. My office, Tuesday at seven?”

Sonny grinned for real now. “Yeah, sounds great. Thanks, Counselor.” 

“See you then,” Rafael called as Sonny quickly made his exit, not wanting to stick around too long lest he say something stupid to make Rafael change his mind.

Once he was safely back in the hallway, he punched the air with his fist. “YES!” he whispered a few decibels too loudly. He was going to spend time with Rafael. Alone time. He tried to remind himself that the point of these lessons was to find out who his secret admirer was, but for the moment, all he could think about was the sound of his name on Rafael’s lips.

“So,” Sonny said nervously, fidgeting with the cuff of his shirt sleeve. “How does this work? Are you gonna teach me, you know, vocabulary first? Or is this gonna be one of those situations where you won’t speak any English and I have to figure it out?” He didn’t mention how the thought of sitting there while Rafael spoke Spanish to him for an hour made his heart race. 

Rafael chuckled, and there was a softness to it that made Sonny’s already-racing heart skip.

“As much as I’d enjoy seeing you struggle to understand me for the rest of the evening, I think we should start with some discussion and vocabulary. I want to get an idea of how much you already know, what you’re aiming to get out of these lessons. Sound good?”

Sonny’s mouth was already dry. “Yeah, sounds good,” he said, trying to smile like his anxiety wasn’t making him feel like his heart was about to burst out of his chest. 

“Okay,” Rafael said, and he chose that moment to roll up his sleeves.

Are you there, God? It’s me, Sonny. Listen, I know we haven’t talked in a while, but I really need a favor right now. Please let me survive this lesson. He just rolled his sleeves up and he’s going to speak Spanish to me, and I need some strength or I’m going to reach across the table and kiss the words out of his mouth and I’ll ruin everything. Thanks, God, you’re a pal!

Mentally crossing himself, Sonny cleared his throat.

“Do you know any Spanish? Ever taken a Spanish class?”

“No,” Sonny said uneasily, a little embarrassed. “I mean, I know buenos días and like, tortilla and stuff, but I don’t know anything really useful. And I almost failed Italian in high school.”

Rafael smirked, and he had that twinkle in his eye that he only got when he was about to sass him. “Well well, the golden boy of Staten Island almost failed Italian? I’m surprised that didn’t get you kicked out of the family home.” 

Sonny grinned sheepishly. “I kinda got a pass because my sisters were even worse. My parents spent most of the nineties trying to keep Teresa from becoming a teen mom, and Gina snuck out of the house so often they installed a security system to keep her indoors—an alarm would go off if she opened her window. Compared to them, my grades weren’t exactly blasphemous.”

Rafael raised an eyebrow so high that Sonny wondered if it hurt.

“Glad I’m an only child,” he quipped. “Well then, I guess let’s start with some vocabulary. By the end of the night, you’ll know more than how to say tortilla.”

He handed Sonny a few sheets of paper. One had a list of vocabulary words on it. “Unit One” was typed at the top of the page. The other papers had fill-in-the-blank exercises as well as an introduction to verb conjugations. Finally, there was a homework sheet, with more fill-in-the-blanks and verb exercises, as well as simple translation exercises. Sonny was taken aback: Rafael had actually prepped for this, he realized. Not only had he prepped, but he’d also clearly spent a lot of his valuable time preparing real lesson plans for him.

Time passed. As they found a rhythm, Sonny felt them both relax, and the lesson became one of conversation, an exchange of ideas and information. It wasn’t dissimilar to their nights talking about law, and this kind of back-and-forth was something they were good at. Sonny found himself enjoying learning new words, being mercilessly teased about his terrible pronunciation (“Good lord, Carisi, I never realized how awful Spanish sounds with a Staten Island accent ),” and listening to Rafael’s soft lilt as he made words Sonny couldn’t even understand sound like the sexiest thing in the world. As the night progressed—they’d gone well over an hour, he noted somewhere in the back of his mind—he began to imagine Rafael whispering these words into his ear, his tongue flicking out to lick his earlobe, hot breath against his skin.

Pulling himself back from the brink, he rubbed the back of his neck in an effort to be nonchalant. “Probably time we stop for the night, huh? It’s almost eleven.” 

Rafael’s eyes snapped up to the clock; he’d clearly lost track of time. Sonny wondered where Rafael’s mind had been tonight: he didn’t dare consider that they were both feeling the same way, not anymore—but part of his heart, much as he wished it wouldn’t, hoped that he was.

“Have that homework completed and on my desk by Thursday, Detective,” Rafael said, smirking as Sonny gathered his things and opened the door, and Sonny blushed, ducking out before he could say something he couldn’t take back.

As Sonny closed the door to his office, Rafael let out a breath he’d been holding all night. It came out as a hiss, a noise like a deflating balloon. He let his thoughts become loud in the newfound silence of the room and allowed the memories of the evening to wash over him. 

He was so fucked.

His first lesson with Sonny had gone well. Really well. Too well, if he was being honest. He should have known that they’d fall into sync so quickly, so easily—because they always did. Sonny had been eager, an apt pupil when they’d studied the law, and he was no less astute and curious when learning Spanish. He hadn’t come in with much knowledge at all, but by the end of the lesson, Rafael could tell he was going to pick it up relatively easily, with the same dedication and conviction he’d applied to passing the bar. And even with that atrocious accent—which was actually adorable, unfortunately—he couldn’t get enough of teaching Sonny his native tongue.

Speaking of tongues. Rafael leaned back on the couch and sighed deeply. Speaking of tongues, he may not be able to speak his feelings out loud, but he also wasn’t sure how much longer he could sit in that room with Sonny, the teacher to his student, and not put his hands all over him. This crush—it felt like more than a crush, but it was just a crush, that’s really all, except that it wasn’t—was stronger than ever, the reality washing over him again and again as the night had gone on. He was so fucked. He wanted, he wanted, he wanted. He already knew that he was going to have to go home and work this out of his system, at least for tonight. Just thinking about what he wanted to do to Sonny as they went over verb conjugations and Sonny kept smiling that gorgeous, dweeby grin with the dimples, had him half-hard. 

He needed to go take care of this. Get some sleep. Try not to think about his star student handing in his homework on Thursday. Fuck.

He’d recently pulled a new pen out of the box of pens he kept in the back of his desk drawer. He began to chew it now, as he contemplated his endgame for these lessons. 

He didn’t do well with unknowns. 

He needed a plan.

Sighing, he resigned himself to the riskiest option. High risk, high reward—his typical modus operandi. Usually, he had to admit, the stakes didn’t feel quite this high. Even when he was going up against a gang, a serial rapist, the governor, the feds, he had fewer nerves than he had right now. At least with work, he had a well-practiced formula. He was a well-oiled machine. He trusted himself to get the job done, to do it well. He did not trust himself to slowly, methodically lead Sonny Carisi to understand that Rafael was in love with him. No, no, he did not. This was a case he didn’t know how to win, but he knew he had to try. For his sake. For Sonny’s. For theirs.

He worked late into the night, crafting his argument, his closing statement. 

Just after the clock struck two, he set his pen down and sat up, reviewing his work one more time. Setting the folder of papers aside, he stood up and packed his briefcase to go home. He had no idea if this would work, but he had a plan, and it would have to be good enough for now.

La suerte está echada. The die is cast.

“Sorry I’m late,” Sonny gasped, panting as he nearly ran into Rafael’s office. 

It was several weeks later, and Sonny had been running late for his Thursday evening lesson with Rafael. He’d been out much longer than anticipated on a case, but had also spent the last hour completing his homework for his profesor. His lessons had been going well—so much better than he’d imagined, actually. He’d sought out these lessons ostensibly because he’d wanted to translate the notes, to find out the identity of his admirer; but the baser part of him, he’d had to admit, had simply been desperate to reclaim time with Rafael. He’d gone back and forth, around and around as to what his intent really was, whether he wanted to move on from Rafael or not, whether he really thought they were over or not—as if they’d ever really been a thing in the first place? What he was truly surprised to find, however, is that over the course of the last few weeks, he was really learning Spanish . Rafael was a detail-oriented teacher who pushed him to always be better, to try harder, to learn from his mistakes; but he was also, to Sonny’s surprise, a gentle teacher who seemed to truly enjoy the act of teaching and took their lessons seriously.

Sonny, for his part, loved completing his homework almost as much as he treasured their lessons, which had never once only lasted an hour. They’d slipped into an easy routine: they’d study Spanish for two to three hours, then gradually start talking about life. Rafael would get out the scotch, they’d loosen their ties, and soon they were laughing over a story Sonny had heard a dozen times: about Rita Calhoun drunkenly performing an impromptu “stand-up” routine roasting John Buchanan at a New York City Bar Association holiday party the previous year. No matter how many times Sonny heard Rafael re-enact Rita’s performance, he always dissolved into giggles, tears streaming down his face. He was an emotive person, always ready to feel and express himself with enthusiasm, but something about late nights with Rafael made him feel particularly free , like he didn’t have to censor himself at all. It was exhilarating.

"Buenas noches,” Rafael greeted him, pulling Sonny firmly back to the present. 

“Buenas noches,” Sonny replied, trying to perfect his accent. He tried not to think about how easily mi amor would have rolled off of his tongue to make a complete sentence. 

This week, they’d begun to discuss past and future tenses. Rafael had had him reading children’s books in Spanish to help not only with basic reading comprehension, but also to boost his reading confidence. This week, though, he wanted to move on to reading more complex source material. Sonny looked at the table, which was covered in newspapers, magazines, and multiple books: one, short stories by Jorge Luis Borges, another, Gabriel García Márquez’ One Hundred Years of Solitude, several post-it flags sticking out from its worn, well-used pages.

After they’d gone through the day’s grammar and Rafael had reviewed Sonny’s homework, they talked until the wee hours about Spanish literature, and Sonny found himself increasingly on edge. He desperately wanted to ask Rafael about Spanish poetry. He had so many questions, but he didn’t know how to ask without Rafael asking why he was so interested. Always impatient, always on the verge of saying too much, Sonny managed to keep his mouth shut that night, instead allowing himself to be carried away by the sound of Rafael softly reading García Márquez to him, and tried his best to focus on the sheet of comprehension questions in front of him. If he was patient, and tried as hard as he could, he reasoned, his work would pay off. 

It was after one in the morning by the time Rafael unlocked the door of his apartment, trying to remain as quiet as possible. His neighbors were, of course, used to him arriving home in the middle of the night, but he never wanted to be that neighbor.

Closing and locking the door silently behind him, Rafael kicked off his shoes and crossed the room to where his mahogany Eames chair sat facing the windows, bathed in a combination of moonlight and light pollution. Turning on the small lamp on the nearby end table, he collapsed into the chair—his safe space, the place where he got all of his best thinking done, and often the only place where he could truly relax—and let out a long, weary sigh.

He felt on edge. He should have been exhausted after another long night with Sonny, but he was wired, unsettled. He wasn’t sure he was going to be able to sleep anytime soon. But why? All was going according to plan, wasn’t it? He’d been slowly increasing the complexity of their lessons together, and ever-eager Sonny was all too happy to oblige. Every time Rafael said jump, Sonny said how high? Tonight he’d finally steered their lessons past children’s books and into the realm of real Spanish literature, a shift that made his heart rate increase because it meant they’d gotten that much closer to the end of this game. That had to be why he was so nervous—because he knew the plan was moving forward, tangibly, toward an end date. 

But…he knew it was more than that. He’d seen the way Sonny couldn’t stop fidgeting tonight, the way he always seemed to be on the verge of saying something, asking something, then deciding against it. Sonny wasn’t stupid—far from it. He’d probably gotten the hint tonight, that literature was only one step before poetry, and he’d probably had to try very hard not to blurt something out that would have given him away. It was impressive, really, Rafael thought, smirking to himself in the dark. Thinking of the willpower Sonny must have had to muster in order to refrain from saying exactly what was on his mind was hot, and the danger of it, of how close Rafael had likely come to almost being found out, made it even hotter.

Okay, he decided, getting up from his chair. 

It was time to go to bed.

It was also time, he’d decided, to mostrar su mano. To show his hand.

Sonny had found another note.

It had been weeks since he’d received word from his mysterious admirer. He’d wondered why the notes had stopped as suddenly as they’d begun, and a large part of him had felt disappointed. Had they gotten tired of their game? Had they expected action from Sonny, and stopped trying when Sonny seemingly hadn’t reacted? He hadn’t realized how much he truly cared about the notes, and about their author, until he had to face the fact that he might never know who sent them. Then, one morning in early April, he opened his desk drawer and spotted it: a pale purple post-it, wrapped gently around the ballpoint pen he always kept against the drawer’s left side. It was the same as all of the others: the same handwriting, the same format. A stanza from a poem: 

Oh invádeme con tu boca abrasadora
indágame, si quieres, con tus ojos nocturnos,
pero en tu nombre déjame navegar y dormir.

Although he was still not able to understand the full meaning of the excerpt, his lessons were clearly paying off, because he could recognize some words and could capture the general feeling. His body flushed with heat as he realized that this stanza was undeniably sexual. As he fanned himself, attempting to cool his suddenly overheated body, he wondered if all of the notes had the same undertones. Retrieving them from his wallet, he once again laid them out on the desk in front of him. His face became even hotter as he realized that yes, to some extent all of the notes did seem to contain a level of heat to them; they were not only about love, but about passion. 

That night, lying restless and awake in his bed, Sonny was unable to stop thinking about who had written the notes, his heart at conflict with his mind. As much as he wanted, needed, to know in order to satisfy his curiosity, he was still so deeply besotted with Rafael that he wondered how much he actually cared. The confusion made his head hurt. Sighing into the dark stillness of his bedroom, he wondered what he would do if he found out tomorrow who had written the notes. Would he want to pursue them? Would they lead him, finally, away from his dead-end crush on Rafael? Or was he still in so deep with Rafael that he wouldn’t want to take action? He tossed and turned until deep into the night, unable to quiet his unsettled mind.

It was their last lesson before Memorial Day weekend. Normally, neither Sonny nor Rafael would have a long weekend to look forward to, but this year Sonny was only on call for the latter two days, while Rafael had promised himself at least some time out of the office. The mood in Rafael’s office that night was looser than usual, more jovial, more relaxed. They’d covered their lessons for the night with practiced ease. Rafael had poured them both a glass of the really nice scotch he had hidden in the back of his filing cabinet—the one he only brought out for really good or really bad days—and Sonny had just taken a long sip when Rafael began to speak.

“Here’s the last one I want you to translate. You’re ready,” Rafael said. His voice sounded softer than usual as he pushed a paper across the table to Sonny. On the blank paper sat a single pale yellow post-it note, in the same now-familiar scrawl he’d been staring at for months now. This one contained only one line, and Sonny found that he was indeed able to translate it. 

En un beso, sabrás todo lo que he callado.

In one kiss, you’ll know all I haven’t said.

Sonny looked up at Rafael. His blue eyes were wide, wider than Rafael had ever seen them. At first, all Rafael could see in them was confusion. Looking down at the quote again, he looked at his translation, then back to the note, then up again at Rafael. This time, his eyes registered shock, only to be replaced again by recognition, and finally, understanding.

“Y—you?” he sputtered.

“Me,” Rafael replied softly. “ Cariño mío, siempre has sido tú.”

Sonny was stunned. “This… this entire time? I thought you didn’t have feelings for me.”

“Mi amor, ” Rafael began, before abandoning his Spanish altogether. “Sonny. Of course I did. I do. I—” he tripped over his words, his heart thumping in his chest. “I was scared.”

Sonny laughed, still in disbelief, but there was a twinkle in his eye. “Rafael Barba? Afraid?”

Rafael looked down at his hands before forcing himself to look back up into Sonny’s eyes. “Believe it or not, Sonny, I’m a real chickenshit when it comes to feelings. I can hold my own at a frenzied press conference, stand up to the mayor—but I’m a coward in my personal life. Whatever personal life I’ve ever allowed myself to have, anyway.” He had never felt more terrified than he did now, in this moment of complete and utter vulnerability.

Sonny blinked, his features softening in a way that calmed Rafael’s racing heart.

“So…” he said slowly, deliberate with his words. “So, that night, when…”

He didn’t seem to know exactly how to describe that night, so Rafael finished for him. “When something almost happened?” 

Sonny’s eyes widened again at his frank acknowledgement. “Yeah,” he said finally. “Yeah, that night when something almost happened.” 

“I ran,” Rafael confessed. “Because I was scared. I didn’t know how to do this. Any of it. I still don’t. I knew I fucked up that night but I didn’t know how to fix it. How to tell you—” he stuttered again as his anxiety flared, threatening to stop his admission in his tracks. He took a deep breath, swatting it away. “How to tell you that I love you. That I have for a long time.”

Sonny’s eyes flashed, his lips parting in surprise as Rafael’s admission hung in the air.

“So you left me the notes? To…what? Tell me without telling me?” 

“Yes,” Rafael said. Reaching down into his briefcase, he pulled out his worn copy of Cien sonetos de amor and handed it to Sonny. “I couldn’t figure out how to have a conversation about it, so instead I decided to use someone else’s words, since I didn’t have any of my own.”

Sonny took the book of poems into his hands, inspecting it. He looked up and grinned, one of those wild smiles that made him look half-crazy with joy. “You’re kidding,” he said incredulously. “This book that’s been sitting on your shelf for years? It was all from this?”

It was Rafael’s turn to feel heat creeping up his neck. 

“Yes,” he replied, not sure whether he should feel embarrassed or not.

“Rafael,” Sonny said, skimming through the book’s pages. “Wow. I never would have pegged you for a Neruda guy. For a poetry guy, even. You’ve been holding out on me.” 

Now Rafael was really blushing. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Detective,” he said, going for sultry but hoping for just not too silly. 

“I want to know all of it,” Sonny replied quickly. Then, shifting himself over smoothly from his chair to sit beside Rafael on the couch, Sonny turned to face him, his voice saturated with equal parts heat and hope: “So, you said something up there about a kiss?”

“Sí, querido,” Rafael said. “I did.” Leaning in, his heart threatening to beat out of his chest, he heard Sonny’s subtle intake of breath, saw the way his tongue darted out to lick his lips in anticipation. Rafael thought he’d feel more anxiety right now, his lips mere millimeters from Sonny’s, but when the moment arrived he felt only the magnetic pull of their bodies together. 

The kiss was gentle, at first; Sonny’s lips were so warm, so soft, everything Rafael knew they would be—but the reality was so much better than any fantasy he’d ever had. And it was Sonny who deepened the kiss; Rafael’s lips had parted slightly, and Sonny slipped his tongue inside, and then Rafael heard noises coming from his own throat, little whines, groans, whimpers, that he couldn’t have stopped if he’d tried. Reaching his hands up into Sonny’s hair (finally , he thought, he had his hands in that hair), he pulled Sonny closer, devouring him. Sonny gave as good as he got, leaning further into the kiss, biting Rafael’s lower lip, bringing his hands up to Rafael’s head and threading his long fingers into his hair, his breath hot and insistent against Rafael’s mouth, quiet moans escaping from deep in his throat, setting Rafael on fire. 

Several minutes, or several hours later, they came up for air. Rafael stared at Sonny, disheveled, his cheeks flushed, his lips kiss-swollen, and silently thanked God that they’d gotten here. He’d pictured it so many times, yet nothing could have prepared him for how beautiful it was. 

“Rafael,” Sonny whispered then, and Rafael looked into his eyes, dark blue now, full of lust and desire and something else, something softer but more intense, like a summer storm.

“Yeah?” Rafael breathed, unable to look away. 

“Yo también te amo.”