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Thwack, thwack, thwack. Rafael closes the apartment door behind him and shrugs his coat off. The week has been a terrible one. Too many late nights in a row, coupled with Sonny’s cabin fever, made him irritable and meaner than usual all day. Poor Carmen. He was quick to apologize when she called him out, but he definitely owes her bagels on Monday morning. Bagels. Better keep that one a secret from Sonny. He rolls his eyes and takes a deep breath. The aggressive chopping sounds from the kitchen can’t allude to anything happy or pleasant.
THWACK!
“Cariño, I think that the bacon is already dead,” Rafael announces as he makes his way into the kitchen. Sonny huffs and swings the cleaver down again. The kitchen is an absolute mess. Hurricane Sonny has been brewing and storming all week, and Rafael has been giving the disaster zone a wide berth.
“My day was lovely, thank you for asking,” Rafael says. He peers over the counter at the macerated bacon on the chopping board. Little haphazard pieces, all in different sizes, lay across it without any of the mise en place typical of his boyfriend. Sonny is an excellent cook. Though this week has been like Kitchen Nightmares. Sonny’s been calling out sick more days that not this week, and while his body needed the rest, Rafael thinks that his brain has begun to act like a bored and therefore destructive puppy.
“Don’t be a dick right now Rafi.” Sonny tosses the cleaver on the counter. His hair is sticking up in ten different directions, and his ratty, old sweatshirt has tomato paste splatter on it. Rafael holds up his hands in surrender.
“How was your day?” Rafael tries.
“Terrible,” Sonny huffs. He wrenches the faucet on and then smashes a fist on the soap pump with enough force that the bottle goes flying across the counter. Rafael flinches. Time to try a different tactic.
“What’s wrong?”
“I hate this stupid - fuck!” Sonny yanks his hands out from under the steaming hot water rips a towel off the oven door. “Stupid, goddamn, shit excuse for pasta,” he rants. “Ma dai, who ever thought brown rice in linguine form was a good idea? Not me. Che schifo,” He throws the towel on the counter. Rafael takes another breath.
“I can order something with actual rice for dinner, maybe Chinese?”
“I’m sick of rice. I want carbonara.”
He wonders if this is what it’s like to deal with a toddler.
“Why don’t you take a break? Go sit on the couch and I’ll make scrambled eggs,” Rafael says. Sonny snorts.
“Yeah, with no toast.”
“Fine, I’ll make you a smoothie, happy?” he snaps. Rafael rips open the cabinet and slams the blender on the counter, knocking over a rejected box of chickpea pasta in the process. Sonny storms out of the kitchen without another word. Rafael starts throwing frozen berries into the blender, fuming.
He knows that it’s a big adjustment for Sonny. The pain and stomach problems started a few months ago, and Rafael did his best to comfort and take care of him until Sonny could finally get in to see a GI specialist.
“Rafi, my stomach hurts,” Sonny whimpered. Sweat beaded on his upper lip, and his face was very, very pale.
“I know, cariño,” Rafael whispered, and wiped his forehead with a cool washcloth. Sonny hadn’t been able to keep anything down for two days, and had been tethered to the toilet bowl or a trash can the whole time. Rafael was really starting to worry about dehydration and was seriously considering taking him to the emergency room.
Sonny shoved his face into the bowl again and Rafael cringed as he listened to sick hit the water. When he was finally done, Sonny rested his head on the toilet seat, panting. Yep, Rafael thought, time to call it quits.
“I think it’s time to go to the hospital, Sonny. Do you think you can get up?”
“No, no hospital… ‘M okay, I don’ wanna…”
“I know, but we’re out of options, here. You can’t keep any water down,” Rafael said, rubbing Sonny’s back.
“I’m going to get your keys and your coat and I’ll drive you.” Sonny had simply whined in misery.
Days later, after Sonny had gone back to light duty with the help of anti-nausea drugs, the symptoms decided to make themselves known again. Sonny found himself making urgent trips to the restroom constantly, and all the bananas, rice, applesauce, and toast in the world couldn’t seem to make his digestive system calm down.
“Damn it Carisi, it stinks in there, man!” Fin had said - not quietly - after using the men’s room right after him. Sonny’s cheeks burned, and he stared down at the files on his desk.
“I’m serious, you gotta see a doctor or something,” he complained.
Sonny considered himself a pretty grown up, mature guy - everybody poops and whatever, he could take a joke - but if his stomach didn’t knock it off, he’d be on a short list for the nickname Stinky soon enough. He liked his given nickname just fine!
The symptoms had no rhyme or reason for flaring up when they did. Sonny even started a food journal and couldn’t figure it out. Was the issue dairy? Tomatoes? Crohn’s disease? Cancer? He had no clue and it pissed him off. He was a detective, he was literally paid to figure out mysteries! For weeks, he was constantly tired and his stomach hurt no matter what.
Almost two months later, Sonny found himself back in the emergency room with yet another bout of “stomach flu.” Rafael had officially reached the end of his patience.
“I’m going to kill that doctor if they send you home without a referral. Rita will get me off on justifiable homicide. Imminent threat to my partner’s life and all - you’ll see,” he steamed. Angry thumbs texted and googled away on his phone.
“Rafi, they said it’s probably just norovirus. It’s going around right now,” he said, completely exhausted. All he wanted was to sleep.
“They also told me they were worried about cancer!” Rafael exploded, right as Sonny’s doctor walked in.
“So good news and bad news, Mr. Carisi,” the doctor said, glancing towards Rafael after a beat. Sonny attempted to sit up a little straighter on the hospital bed.
“We ran a blood panel for a few different things since you’ve been having prolonged GI symptoms. Good news is that your white count was normal, and you don’t have any indicators of cancer.”
“Gracias a Dios,” Rafael exhaled shakily.
“Bad news is that one of the tests came back positive for Celiac disease. We can’t be sure without further testing, but it would explain the symptoms you’ve been having. I’d like to schedule you for an endoscopy and colonoscopy to cover our bases.”
“Okay, sure,” Sonny agreed. It wasn’t an answer yet, but it was a step in the right direction. He was sent home with procedure dates, contact information for a specialist, and instruction to take it easy and rest. Rafael spent all his spare time on the internet, practically earning another doctorate with the amount of medical information he was consuming.
Post-anesthesia Sonny was an adorable dork. He was barely awake when Rafael was allowed to go see him, and a big, lopsided grin spread across his face.
“Rafi, heyyyy,” he slurred. And then - “I feel weird,” he shuddered.
“Hi cariño, I missed you,” Rafael said, sitting down next to the bed and taking Sonny’s hand.
“Did I go so’where?” Poor Sonny looked incredibly confused, and gave a huge, exaggerated blink.
“You took a nap, you’re at the hospital,” Rafael said.
“Oh. Did I get hurt again?”
“No, you’re fine,” Rafael assured him. Sonny relaxed and seemed to fall asleep again until a few moments later, when he startled awake.
“I wanna get you ice cream,” Sonny said, with such intensity and an earnest expression that Rafael had to laugh.
“Do you want ice cream Sonny?”
“No, I wanna get you some.”
“Why?” Rafael chuckled.
“Cause you’re sweet,” he muttered. Then his eyes closed and he was asleep again. Rafael just smiled. High as a kite, and Sonny was still capable of the cheesiest pick-up line Rafael had ever heard.
A week later, the GI office called and Sonny finally had answers. Celiac disease. No more gluten. No pasta, no cannoli, no cake, no bagels. But if he stuck to the diet, the symptoms would hopefully calm down and he could finally feel normal again.
Rafael sits down on the couch with two fingers of scotch and a smoothie. Sonny had turned on a true crime documentary, but was staring down at the blanket. Still sulking.
“Do you want to talk about it?”he asks.
“Not really.”
“Too bad. I’m not interested in walking on eggshells around you for the rest of the night.”
“Maybe you should just leave then,” Sonny bites out.
“No.”
Sonny sips his smoothie. It would come out sooner or later. Sonny wasn’t good at keeping his feelings inside, and Rafael was willing to wait him out.
“I just hate being sick.”
Bingo. Rafael bites his tongue and takes a sip of his drink. The scotch burns and feels warm all together. Be patient. Don’t interrupt yet.
“My ma wanted to cook for me. Bring over some food. But everything she suggested has gluten, and I had to keep telling her no. I can’t eat any of the food I grew up with,” Sonny says eventually. Rafael puts his glass down and turns to look at him.
“I’m sorry, Sonny.”
He sniffs. “It’s mostly about the food, but it’s also about still feeling bad sometimes, even when I’m doing everything I’m supposed to be doing. I get jealous when anyone around me has a donut or a even a stupid piece of toast. I don’t eat things that I’m mad other people get to eat, and I still get sick anyway. It’s stupid.”
Rafael reaches for Sonny’s hand, and considers it a victory when he doesn’t pull away.
“You’ve been feeling pretty bad all week, are you doing any better today?”
“Yeah, I felt like I could eat something real finally and all I wanted was comfort food,” he admits. Rafael really does feel for him. There’s an idea forming in the back of his mind, but he isn’t sure how Sonny will react. Take it slow. Gentle.
“The first couple of times you took care of me during bad migraines, you made me pastina the day after,” he starts. Chances a look at Sonny’s face. He’s smiling a bit now, no doubt remembering how much of a bitch Rafael was being about not wanting pasta after throwing up all night, Sonny are you serious? All I can stomach is rice or gatorade. “You said it was easy comfort food, and it was perfect. But it wasn’t my comfort food, because I didn’t grow up with it.” He pauses, unsure. Sonny squeezes his hand. The secret signal to go on, to keep talking when Rafael was having a hard time being vulnerable.
“Now, it’s the only thing I want after I’ve been in pain or sick,” he takes a deep breath before continuing. “You gave me new comfort food, Sonny. I associate that taste with you being there for me and loving me,” he says, before he loses his nerve. “If you’ll let me, I want to give you comfort food from my childhood too. Something that won’t upset your stomach, I hope,” he chuckles, and looks up to see that Sonny’s crying.
“Okay,” Sonny whispers, and smiles.
“I’ll call my mother for the picadillo recipe, but I’ve got to warn you, I’ve never been able to get it quite right and -“ he rambles. Sonny cuts him off with a kiss.
“That sounds good. I’m sorry I’ve been moody,” Sonny says when he pulls away.
“You’re allowed,” Rafael grins.
“I love you, Rafi.”