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RB: Running late. Should be there by 8:15--see you then.
SC: If you insist. At 8:16, though, I’m flirting with this bartender.
He chuckles to himself at his clever retort, shedding his jacket and hanging it on the back of his seat at the bar. Motioning toward Tony, the ever-faithful bartender, he orders a Corona Light and settles in for the wait that’s become far less predictable when he meets his husband for a drink these days.
The beer arrives, and he quickly takes his first sip, planning to finish it while he’s still alone. He’ll order something stronger once his husband’s here. Tonight’s a Macallan type of night, something he’s learned in more recent years to appreciate and enjoy. When he was a law school student, the budget never held room for things like twelve-year aged scotch. Now that he was out of school and prosecuting his own cases, he had a little more room to enjoy such luxuries.
The first time he’d tasted it, he’d been happily tipsy, leaning toward drunk on Rafael’s couch. They were giggling together, a sound he’d never thought he’d hear from the sophisticated attorney. “Here, try this,” Rafael had offered, handing him a rocks glass with a healthy serving of the scotch. Sonny had tossed it back as if it were a shot, though, and both of them ended up wearing the results. He’d immediately expected his colleague to be furious; instead, he’d started to giggle, a breathy and high pitched noise that had Sonny joining him within seconds.
He had the feeling back then that very few people had seen that side of Rafael Barba, a side that softened the man from a cutthroat prosecutor to a sometimes-vulnerable bisexual man who had learned the hard way not to love so easily and openly. Life had been a stern teacher, and Rafael had encountered some of her most painful and poignant lessons early. Rafael had learned it was safest to live in isolation, so when he began to slowly make room in his life for Sonny, the detective was flattered and pleased. “Stay the night.” Rafael had tugged on his arm one wintry evening as Sonny rose from the bed. They’d just finished making love. “It’s too cold without you, really...plus the squad can’t do acceptable work with one less detective if you get sick from walking through that mess outside.” Sonny had easily slid back into bed, wrapping long limbs around his lover, and he’d sworn the warmth in his body now spread to his heart.
Macallan 12 is made from whisky in sherry-soaked casks constructed of oak, and left to mature for, in this case, twelve years. It’s deep and complex in its flavor profile, and Sonny finds it to be an ironic parallel to his husband, who was buried in an office for years as a prosecutor in the criminal justice system. Like the scotch Sonny has developed a taste for, the man is also deep and complex. Other people experience the surface of an intelligent, articulate ADA focused on his profession and his wins. But Sonny has tasted what’s under the surface. He’s tasted the sadness of loss, the anger of lies, the hurt of betrayal. And he's also tasted the peace of contentment, the joy of laughter, and the satisfaction of pleasure. They all lie in Rafael’s tears, and Sonny has tasted every one.
He knows every flavor of Rafael’s rainbow, and he savors each one every chance he gets. The musky patchouli of his hair, the clean soapy scent under his arms, the cool mint of his toothpaste.
The spicy stark in his mouth of the Macallan they swallow as they build their lives together.
Sonny finishes his first beer and checks his watch; he’s still got a few more minutes before Rafael will be there. He’s looking forward to this time out, away from home and work and responsibilities. It’s a time when they can both relax and enjoy each other. He fiddles with the label on the bottle, trying to kill some more minutes until he sees his partner make his way through the bar, his purposeful swagger easy to note in the room. The thought brings a smile to Sonny’s face.
The door to the bar swings open and Sonny watches as the wind blows his husband in, tousling the finely-combed hair. Leaning in, he motions to Tony once more. “Two Macallans, doubles, neat,” he orders, grinning, and a moment later, Rafael is hanging his jacket on the back of his chair and taking a seat next to his husband.
Rafael leans in, placing a quick kiss on Sonny’s lips, then patting his hand. Their rings glisten next to one another. “Sorry I’m late...you know how it goes, though.” Both men pick up their glasses and, smiling at one another, clink them together. “To you,” Rafael toasts, signature smirk playing on his lips.
“To us.” Sonny feels his mouth pull into a smirk as well, as he takes a long sip of scotch.