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If someone ever put a gun to Carisi’s head and barked, “Quick! What’s Barba’s taste in music like?” he’d first disarm the guy with his service weapon, cuff him, mirandise him, and personally escort him to the psych ward for an eval while the next of kin was tracked down to sign off on the 72-hour hold.
Only then, while waiting for the paperwork, would he finally answer: “Dunno. Probably classical?”
It tracked. Barba had that whole thing going on. Carisi could picture him in a leather armchair, swirling Hemingway type liquids catching the lamplight, waiting for the perfect … whatever note that Chopin had. Vivaldi, Mozart. That was pretty much… oh yeah, the St. Bernard. Beethoven. The one who wrote the da-da-da-DUM symphony that gets used in every movie trailer ever.
He would have guessed at opera, too. Carisi couldn’t name a single one but he bet Barba could. He bet he could name them all.
So with all that in mind, he hadn’t expected… well.
They had been crawling back from Rikers after a particularly useless meeting with their perp’s ex-associate, who had spent forty-five minutes alternating between stonewalling, whining about his commissary privileges, asking them for an update on the latest Passions storylines and trying to trade intel for a better bunk with a window view, and had given them absolutely nothing to work with. Carisi’s mood had been pretty damn low.
The only thing that had been keeping him from driving straight into the East River had been the pure, stupid joy of showing off his new ride’s stereo. It had been the first department-issued car he’d ever driven that didn’t feel like it belonged in a museum exhibit. Actual Bluetooth. Actual bass that didn’t sound like someone kicking a tin can down a flight of stairs.
Barba, slumped in the passenger seat, hadn’t said much since they’d left the island. Carisi had glanced over, seen the tight line of his mouth, and decided the only humane thing to do had been to let Barba share the joy.
“Go on,” he’d said, gesturing at the aux cord. “Plug in. Pick whatever. One of your playlists.”
Barba had given that tiny head-shake. “The radio was… I was going to say ‘fine,’ but I am painfully aware that Shaddap Your Face is playing right now.”
“Is it?” Carisi had tilted his head. “I’d forgotten to be racially offended.”
“Would you like me to turn it up?” Barba had asked. “Help you get there.”
Carisi had fiddled with the buttons and switched stations. “No, seriously. Anything. Even…” He’d swallowed. “Even a podcast, if that’s your thing.”
Carisi had really hoped it wasn’t. Carisi didn't understand podcasts. They were just two people in your earholes arguing about whether cereal was soup in between Blue Apron sponsors while you were trapped and couldn’t yell “you’re both wrong, shut up.”
But he’d been so far gone on Barba that if the man had said, “Actually, I’ve been meaning to finish this forty-five-minute ASMR recording of an open-heart surgery. I’ve heard it gets very spitty,” Carisi would have replied, “Hit play, counselor. I hope the surgeon narrates with tongue clicks.”
Barba had hesitated. A faint blush had crept up his neck.
A blush.
On Barba.
Carisi had nearly veered into the bike lane. His heart had tried to stage a jailbreak through his sternum.
Barba probably thought a blue-collar kid from Staten Island would laugh. Call him pretentious. Stuffy. “Forgot his roots,” like what Amaro muttered after nearly every argument. That type of thing had a way of sticking.
Carisi had wiggled the cord. “Please. Save me from another mid-Atlantic DJ warble.”
Barba had taken it gingerly, scrolled, glanced over once , looking almost nervous and then had tapped play and immediately looked out the passenger window.
Violin. Okay. Carisi had smirked internally. Nailed it. Classy. Elegant. Probably some tasteful--
Then the gates of hell had opened in his speakers.
A guttural demon growl had ripped through the cabin, vibrating the steering wheel. Shredded vocal cords had screamed like someone had set a chainsaw to a windpipe.
Eat youuuu
Eat your eyes
Eat your souuuulll
Die on your thighssss
I am Satan’s anus
I am Satan’s anus
Satan likes my anus
Eat youuuuuu
Let’s eat anuuuusss
Carisi’s knuckles had gone bone-white on the wheel. He’d shot a sideways look.
Barba had been staring straight ahead, lips pressed together.
It had to have been a prank. Right? Barba trolling him. Hilarious. Classic.
Then he’d caught the phone screen tilted just enough to read.
Playlist title: Songs to Relax To
Relax.
Relax?
Carisi had opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
Another blast of guttural howling had followed: “Satan’s anus enjoys the taste of your fear! So bleach that anuuuus.”
This absolutely was not Vivaldi.
He was at least 86 percent sure.
“It’s…. It’s catchy.”
Barba finally slid a glance sideways, the corner of his mouth twitching, just a flicker, tentative, as if testing the waters. “You like it?”
“It’s so… so good,” lied Carisi.
Barba lit up, the guarded edges of his expression softening into something dangerously close to delight. “Okay, this is a more popular piece, to be honest. That’s why I picked it. Crowd-pleaser. Borderline mainstream. I prefer their album stuff.”
Mainstream? Who was in the stream? Jeffrey Dahmer?
“Oh… I’ll have to listen sometime.”
Barba’s smile sharpened, pleased, and he reached for his phone, thumb flicking through the queue with sudden purpose. “My absolute favourite is ‘Vomit Death.’ Perfect tempo for winding down to. But you might like…” He tilted the screen toward Carisi just enough for the title to catch the light. “Grandma’s Teeth in the Blender.’ Just such a fun track. Give it a shot?”
On the one hand, it would mean the person currently having their appendix removed with a rusty spoon might finally stop screaming. On the other… more of this would continue to happen.
But Barba looked so--
Ridiculously cute. Ridiculously hopeful. Like a goth kid showing his crush his first charcoal sketch of a skull.
“Sure,” Carisi said, voice cracking only a little. “Absolutely.”
Barba looked about ready to levitate out of the passenger seat. He cued it up.
The opening riff sounded like someone had fed a blender a fistful of gravel and told it to gargle battery acid. Then… even worse. Someone had added lyrics.
Grandma’s teeth in the blender!
Pureed memories, senior discount splendor
False teeth clacking like tap shoes of doom
Blender on high, bingo night ends too sooooooooon
Spit and enamel, a retirement rain
Healthcare won’t cover this level of paaaaaaaaaaaaaain
Gums screaming softly, like a haunted kazoo
Chew on the past, it’s mechanically neeeew
Puree the years, let the dentures ascend
Grandma’s teeth in the blender, family dinner’s ruined agaaaaaaaaain
Carisi glanced over at Barba who was bobbing his head as if there was any discernable beat.
I blend her smile for the final time
Polydenture graveyard, crime of the prime
Slurp the gums, crunch the crown
Grandma’s gone, now she’s just sound!!!! Sound!!!!! Sound!!
“This bit is the best bit. Listen.”
Carisi’s eardrums had begun frantically searching his skull for a spare bone spur to impale themselves on. From the speakers came the sound of an electric guitar being beaten like it was a rat in a Scorsese movie, while a crazed child’s giggling duetted with it.
Jesus.
He chanced another glance at Barba who was looking at him expectantly.
“You’re right. That part was… wow.”
“I’ll play Rectum Prolapse next. Try not to sing along to the chorus. I dare you. It’s impossible not to.”
“Great! Just… just great,” said Carisi as Barba began to hum along.
Carisi’s hands flexed on the wheel. The drive back from Rikers suddenly felt like it had gained seventeen extra boroughs.
Carisi was hunched over paperwork, headphones in, iPod on shuffle, doing his best to dot every I and cross every T.
He rubbed at his temple. One more page and then he was going home. God, he was tired, and--
A hand landed on his shoulder and Carisi yelped like a cartoon cat. He yanked the buds from his ears and spun around.
Oh.
Barba stood there, fresh from Benson’s office, looking unfairly composed in his three-piece suit. God, he was so handsome, so completely and utterly out of Carisi’s league with his nice hair and his eyes and his nose and his hands and probably his feet. Probably. He hadn’t looked down yet. Oh yeah. Feet too.
“Counselor,” he said, instead of immediately falling to his knees and proposing or doing anything else while he was down there. “Any luck with the Marchetti warrant?”
“Signed and already out the door with Amaro. I’m pretty sure I’ll have him up for arraignment before the end of the day.”
“Good. Great.”
“Excellent work on the catch with the cousin.”
“Oh.” Carisi reddened. “Liv told you?”
“She did. It was… really impressive.”
Barba watched him for a moment, considering, and then his cheeks went a little pink. He set his briefcase on the desk, popped the clasp, and pulled out a disc.
“Trash Woodlouse.”
“Sorry?”
“Trash Woodlouse?” Barba repeated, slower. “The band. From the other day.”
“Oh. Of course. Trash Woodlouse. Them.”
Carisi had successfully avoided calling a priest to exorcise the car, though he still had the inexplicable urge to suck on a Strepsil every time he thought about them.
“I made you a mixtape,” Barba said. “Greatest hits, more or less. From their demo days through the newest album. I thought you might appreciate the progression.”
Carisi could only imagine what the demos sounded like if he had already heard the polished versions. Maybe they just headbutted a garage door over and over.
But he wouldn’t have to imagine it now, would he? He owned the damn thing.
“Thanks,” he said, a little stunned. “That’s so… thoughtful.”
And it was. The thought of Barba sitting somewhere with his tongue pressed to the corner of his mouth, probably, Carisi liked the visual and was keeping it, carefully choosing tracks, trying to anticipate what Carisi would hear, what he might like, what he might understand.
All for him.
That was…
That was actually amazing.
“Thank you,” he said again, softer this time.
Barba flushed, visibly. “I should… um.”
“Sure. Yeah.” Carisi smiled, holding up the disc. “I can’t wait.”
Barba hesitated, just for a second, like he wanted to say something else, then nodded and turned away.
Carisi watched him go, then slipped the disc into his bag like it was something precious.
Carisi made it halfway through track three.
“Hey. What are you doing tonight?” Barba said, catching him as Carisi headed down the courthouse hallway.
Carisi had been planning to help his sister set up her new TV. She was a complete technophobe, but honestly, she could rediscover the lost and ancient art of reading a book if Barba was about to ask him on a--
“Trash Woodlouse are doing a surprise gig,” Barba continued. “I managed to get tickets. Can you believe it?”
Yes. Because the majority of the Manson family were still behind bars.
“And I was wondering…”
Oh.
Oh, God.
This was it. This was the damn monkey paw wishing state of his life. Except the monkey was holding up the middle finger. He was getting asked out by the man of his dreams but the date was going to be in one of Dante’s Circles.
It was his own damn fault, too. Every single time he passed Barba, he had called some variation of “loving that CD” and not “loving that new coaster.” Because he had got addicted to Barba’s pleased soft smile.
Just say no.
Just say…
“Sure,” he said, as his heart tried to decide to inflate or deflate. “I’d love to. I'm really excited! Did I tell you I love that CD?”
Carisi had made a grave mistake. And that was being born.
Because look what it had led to.
The crowd was a sea of black hoodies and battle vests layered in patches that looked like they’d been designed during a regrettable acid trip. Hair defied gravity, physics, and probably several OSHA regulations. And there he was in his suit. His suit. Why had he chosen the charcoal grey with the subtle pinstripe? Because he was an idiot? Probably because he was an idiot.
“Yo,” said a green-haired kid next to him, grinning. “Fit goes hard. Very ironic-core.”
Carisi nodded, pretended he understood, took a sip of his beer, immediately got jostled, and watched half of it slosh down his sleeve. At this point it might be easier to just pour it directly onto himself and suck it out of the wool.
God, where was Barba.
He’d said to meet him inside, but Carisi had assumed inside meant something manageable. Maybe the band, the band's parents, Barba, and a handful of people who’d escaped from a psych ward. Instead the place was heaving. And hot. So hot. And loud. His back hurt a little. He was tired.
“Isn’t this amazing?” someone shouted directly into his ear.
Carisi turned and--
His brain looked at the print outs his eyes had just handed it and sent them back for clarification.
Barba stood there with spiked hair, a faded band tee, torn black jeans clinging to his thighs like they wanted to check his blood type, chains hanging low at his hips, an oversized leather jacket, and battered combat boots.
And--
“Do you,” Carisi said, gesturing helplessly, “do you have a piercing in your eyebrow?”
“What?”
“Your eyebrow,” Carisi tried again, louder.
“What?”
He gave up and just pointed at his own face.
“Oh,” Barba shouted, shrugging. “Yeah. I take it out for court.”
He might have said that. He also might have said Tom Cruise is short. How had Carisi never noticed a hole in his eyebrow and…
Wait.
There were two ring shapes in the nipple area of that tee.
Oh, God.
Carisi needed to bend over and put his head between his legs. Or Barba's.
“Quick,” Barba shouted. “Let’s get closer to the stage.”
He grabbed his hand, which was a definite pro, and dragged them forward, which immediately became a con.
Stage.
Calling it a stage felt generous. It was the same floor level, just slightly stickier. And Carisi had never really considered how deeply uncomfortable it was to be eye-level with a man screaming into a microphone while making unbroken eye contact.
It felt… confrontational.
“BREAK THE PRESIDENT’S KNEEEEEEES WITH HIS OWN SKUULLLLL.”
Well.
At least Carisi had a favourite track now.
It continued in much the same vein. Broken bones. Devils. The anus made several unexpected return appearances. Those were just the lyrics he could actually decipher.
The singer growled so low the devil was probably banging on the ceiling below with a broom. Lights strobed, sweat flew, the bass rattled something loose in his chest.
At some point, without quite meaning to, Carisi began to dissociate.
“Should we go to the mosh pit?” Barba asked, eyes bright.
Oh Jesus Christ.
“Sure…”
Barba took his hand again, and Carisi sighed, fondly, and then they were swallowed whole.
The pit closed around them. Bodies slammed and spun and rebounded, all elbows and boots and wild momentum. Carisi flailed awkwardly, trying desperately not to clock anyone in the kidneys or get clocked himself. He had no rhythm, no instinct, and a growing fear for his toes.
Barba, however, moved like he been born in a circle pit. He threw himself into the churn with reckless joy, hair flying, shoulders loose, laughing outright when someone bounced off him. He looked feral. Beautiful. Deeply, profoundly unhinged.
Carisi, meanwhile, felt approximately seventy-eight years old.
Then someone slammed into Barba from the side, hard enough to knock the breath out of him, and Barba went stumbling straight back into Carisi. Carisi caught him without thinking, arms locking around his waist, feet planting out of pure survival instinct.
For one heartbeat, the world narrowed.
The noise dulled. The lights blurred. The pit surged around them, but for a suspended second, they were still. Barba’s chest pressed to his, warm and solid. Carisi could feel his breath, could feel the vibration of the music through him.
Barba looked up at him, close enough that Carisi could count his lashes. His gaze drifted, slow this time, not a flick but a consideration, down to Carisi’s mouth. His breath caught. The world kept moving but he didn’t. Carisi leaned in without quite deciding to, the motion small, instinctive, like he was being drawn to…
And then an elbow came out of nowhere and smashed into his face.
White exploded behind his eyes. Pain bloomed sharp and immediate. He tasted copper. Someone yelled. Someone laughed. The pit surged again, indifferent.
Carisi sat on the curb with his tie that had cost him an amount he didn’t want to think about now balled up and pressed to his nose, head tipped back, blood soaking steadily into the silk. Every heartbeat throbbed straight through his face. He felt wrung out, overstimulated, and weirdly fragile.
Barba sat next to him, still vibrating with leftover adrenaline, jacket half off his shoulders, hair a mess.
“Oh God,” Barba said. “I am so sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Carisi lied thickly, voice nasal. “Adds character.”
Barba huffed a laugh that faded almost immediately. He shifted closer, shoulder warm against Carisi’s. “I should’ve kept you out of that. You’re new to the scene, after all.”
“Rafael, it’s fine,” Carisi said. “I should’ve been paying attention.”
Barba tilted his head, studying him. “Why weren’t you?” he asked, quieter now.
Carisi hesitated, eyes still on the sky. His throat felt thick, full of blood and mucus and things he didn’t want to think about. “I… I was distracted, I guess.”
“Huh.” Barba was quiet for a beat. Then, tentative, “They’re playing again tomorrow night. If you… if you want a do-over.”
Ah.
Yeah.
That meant he had to be honest. For his dignity. For his nose. For his insurance premiums.
Carisi sighed and lowered his head, turning to look at Barba. “I’m really sorry. Rafael, this… this isn’t my thing.”
“Oh.” Barba blinked. “Gigs?”
“Trash Weevil.”
“Who?”
“Trash Wombat. Trash… whoever just had a medical emergency on stage.” Carisi winced. “God, I’m sorry. I just can’t listen to any more of them.”
Barba looked surprised. Hurt flickered across his face, then smoothed away.
“Then why did you pretend it was?”
Carisi smiled, small and a little helpless. “Rafael, if you’d told me you were into line dancing, there’s a very real chance I’d be wearing a Stetson right now. I really like you. And I wanted you to like me too. I know that’s not exactly… dignified.”
Barba stared at him for a long second.
Then he smiled, soft and fond. “That’s not pathetic,” he said. “It’s sweet.”
“I never said pathetic?”
“Oh? Didn't you. Well it's not.”
“I kinda feel like it might be now?”
Barba shook his head and nudged Carisi’s knee with his own. “But you really don’t like them? Not even Kitty With a Gun?”
“Christ, which one was that?”
“Kitty got a gun. Kitty got an A to Z of your favourite eateries. Kitty gonna get a grenade and--”
Wild to hear it with a melody.
“Oh yeah. That one.” Carisi nodded. “It’s… really good.”
Barba cocked his head and arched a ring encircled eyebrow.
“No, it’s terrible,” Carisi said at once. “It’s all terrible. It’s like The Exorcist 2.”
“There already is an Exorcist 2.”
“You’re right. I undershot. It’s like Exorcist 67 and it’s not straight-to-video, it’s straight-to-shredder. I don’t know whether to listen or perform the Heimlich maneuver. If my car made that noise, my insurance would call it a write-off. The lyrics are just nouns screaming at other nouns. Trash Whiskers are goddamn awful.”
“Hey, fuck you, pal!”
They turned.
A gigantic man loomed over them, hair hanging nearly to his knees, sunglasses shoved up on his head like a crooked crown. He radiated mass. Presence. Gravity. He looked like the type of man who would aggressively push buttons in an elevator, but it would be the buttons on your shirt. Numbly, Carisi recognised him as the mountain who had been staring directly into his soul about twenty minutes earlier.
“Oh my God,” Barba whispered, reverent. “You’re Gunther Spleen.”
“Pleased to meet you,” the man rumbled. “Who’s this narc?”
“Oh, I-I don’t know,” Barba said. “I just met him.”
Thanks, Barba!
“Yeah?” Gunther Spleen took another drag from his cigarette, eyes never leaving Carisi. He had always thought singers weren’t supposed to smoke, but maybe Gunther’s doctor had heard the band and begged him to get COPD. “Did you punch him for talking that shit about us?”
Barba looked at Gunther, at Carisi, back to Gunther. “Yes.”
“Awesome!” Gunther held up a massive hand. Barba high-fived him so hard it echoed. “That’s the type of fan I’m talking about. Want a picture?”
Barba practically hit lunar orbit.
He grabbed Carisi by the sleeve and hauled him upright. “Sonny…. I-I mean… Manny.. I mean man-I-just-met. Can you take a picture of us? Oh my God. Oh my God!” He shoved his phone into Carisi’s hands, visibly shaking with something that could only be diagnosed as acute Beatlemania.
Carisi stuffed his bloody tie into his pocket and stepped back.
Gunther slung one massive hairy tattooed arm around Barba’s shoulders and threw devil horns with the other hand. Barba mirrored him instantly, grinning like it was Christmas morning and he’d just found a motorcycle under the tree.
“Okay,” Carisi said flatly. “Say cheese.”
“Cheese?” Gunther scoffed. “God, this guy’s lame. You wanna punch him again?”
“Oh,” Barba said, torn. “Maybe after the photo?”
Carisi sighed and adjusted the frame. “Say--”
“Cameraman’s an asshole,” Gunther declared.
“Cameraman’s an asshole!” Barba echoed, delighted.
Carisi rolled his eyes and snapped several photos, all of Barba beaming like he’d just been knighted and Gunther doing his best intimidating scowl.
“Thanks, man,” Gunther said, pulling back. He bumped fists with Barba. “Glad to have you as a fan. Stay cool.”
“I will, Mr. Spleen! I will!” Barba said, absolutely vibrating.
Gunther shot Carisi a final glare, made a convincing show of maybe cleaning his clock, then turned and disappeared back into the venue, flicking his cigarette away behind him.
Barba exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for years.
“Sonny. That was Gunther Spleen. Gunther. Spleen.” He stared at his phone, smiling so hard it looked physically painful. “Did you see? Gunther Spleen told me to stay cool.”
“Decided not to take that advice, I see.”
Barba laughed and swatted Carisi’s shoulder, still staring at the screen. “Gunther Spleen,” he repeated dreamily.
“What was his name again?” Carisi asked. “I missed it.”
“I’m getting this printed and putting it on my desk at work.”
“Please don’t. People will think you’re his defence attorney. Also, I cannot believe the level of starfucking I just witnessed.”
“Oh. Right. Sorry.” Barba finally looked up at him, sheepish. “But I couldn’t tell him we were friends. Look at what you’re wearing, for one thing.”
Carisi laughed, then paused, studying him. “Are we?” he asked. “Friends?”
Barba smiled, warm and easy now. “Sonny,” he said, “do you want to go get a drink?”
Carisi smiled back. “Yeah,” he said. “I do.”
Two weeks later they were dating. Properly. Wonderfully. And it had been bliss.
Barba was happy in a way that felt almost irresponsible. He woke up lighter. He laughed more easily. He adored Carisi. For his earnestness. For the way he listened like everything mattered. For his genuine kindness. For how he tried, so hard. For how he made Barba feel like he was the most important person in the world.
“Okay,” Barba said, reaching for the aux cord. “How about some music.”
Carisi went visibly still.
“Relax,” Barba said, already smiling. He snagged Carisi’s phone instead. “Any playlist?”
Carisi smiled. “Try the commute mix.”
Barba hit play.
If he’d been asked to guess Carisi’s taste, he would have said Billy Joel, Springsteen, maybe Mellencamp. Blue-collar anthems. Songs about grit, small towns, and loyalty and men who punch time clocks and feel feelings about it. Music that wore denim.
The opening notes drifted out.
Barba’s smile faltered.
This was… aggressively twee.
Carisi, meanwhile, started singing along. In falsetto. Softly. Earnestly. And then he looked over at Barba while doing it, eyes bright, completely unselfconscious.
“Candyland appears each time you smile
Never thought that fairy tales came true
But they come true when I'm near you
You're a genie in disguise
Full of wonder and surprise”
Jesus Christ.
This was the kind of music they played when they put you on hold at the suicide hotline. To clear the queue.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
Barba wondered, briefly, if his reflexes were fast enough to grab the wheel and veer into oncoming traffic.
God. Don’t be mean.
It was one song. Everyone had a guilty pleasure. Carisi was allowed this.
Barba scrolled.
Oh.
Oh no.
This was not a one-song situation.
Barry Manilow. David Hasselhoff. Air Supply. Céline Dion in her most unrepentant power-ballad era. The Starland Vocal Band.
He froze.
Why was the Glee version of Comfortably Numb on here? Was this a mental break?
“Is this… what you listen to all the time?”
“God, yeah,” Carisi said, beaming. “I love something you can tap a foot to.”
The only way Barba would tap a foot to this was if his toes were pressed against a quick-kill poisonous gas lever.
Carisi hit a particularly stratospheric note. Barba shuddered.
Then Carisi reached across and took his hand. Barba’s heart warmed despite itself. He smiled back.
“Betcha by golly, wow
You're the one that I've been waiting for forever
And ever will my love for you keep growin' strong
Keep growin' strong”
Barba squeezed his hand back and let the elevator music wash over them like sickly honey.
Okay.
This was fine. Nobody was perfect.
And if being with Carisi meant occasionally enduring his truly catastrophic taste in music, then that was a sacrifice Barba was willing to make.
Maybe they could make a new playlist?
Together.