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What kind of idiot sets an entire outfit—including shoes and tie—out in the bathroom for after their shower and forgets to bring in a shirt?
Rafael’s kind of idiot, apparently.
Carisi’s a grown man; Rafael should just make him get his own shirt. If not for laziness—the most plausible scenario—Rafael’s not sure what Carisi’s hang-up is. Carisi has nothing to be shy about, and Rafael thought he’d made it perfectly clear last night—in multiple languages—just how beautiful Carisi was. He’ll have to try harder next time.
“Come on. Please?” Carisi whines from behind the closed door. Rafael sighs.
It’s not unlike dealing with a child. The sooner Rafael gives in, the sooner Carisi will quit bothering him, and the sooner he can curl back up on Carisi’s surprisingly comfortable bed under the warm weight of the comforter. He might even be able to doze back off for a few minutes while Carisi dresses himself and gets his hair in order for the day.
Upon opening Carisi’s closet, it takes all of Rafael’s self-control not to slam the door and forget that the atrocity that is said closet exists. There’s no apparent rhyme or reason to it. Pants, and probably shorts, of all sorts are stacked on shelves on either side. Long-sleeved button-downs are scattered amongst hoodies and short-sleeved polos and at least one sports jersey. Stripes and plaids and checks are all cozied up together in sinful ways. He supposes he should consider himself lucky that all the clothes are either folded or on hangers.
Rafael forces himself to stop gaping at the eyesore of a closet, to reach inside and grab the nearest button-down without regard for what it looks like. The petty part of him hopes that it clashes terribly with the rest of Carisi’s outfit.
As though Carisi can hear him thinking evil thoughts, the voice from the bathroom calls, “A plain black one? Please.”
Squinting in the low light, Rafael frowns at the shirt in his hands. It’s pinstriped. Of course he wouldn’t be so lucky. Resigned, Rafael hangs it back up more-or-less where he found it.
Rafael’s heart is hammering just this side of too hard in his chest. It’s a simple request. Plain black shirt. He can do this, organized closet or no.
It takes entirely too long to separate the likely candidates from the extraneous, and it’s only due in very small part to Rafael’s slightly shaking hands. Who even needs five plain black button-ups? Certainly not Carisi, who tends to favor pastels and lighter neutrals.
Give or take a line, a pocket, an extra few buttons, all of the shirts look the same. Rafael tries holding them side-by-side, and when that fails, holds them up one by one towards the low-watt light bulb in Carisi’s closet. It’s useless. He can’t distinguish one from another.
In true Rafael fashion, he chooses the shirt with the best quality fabric—fractionally thicker and just a little smoother between his fingers—and brings it to the bathroom before he can second-guess himself again. He raps on the door, which swings open and reveals Carisi’s arm. Carisi waggles his fingers impatiently. “Took you long enough.”
“Your closet’s a mess,” Rafael says, disdainfully. He hands over the shirt and the door slams shut with a quiet huff from the man behind it.
Seconds later the door reopens and a shirtless Carisi peeks out, confused, shirt still dangling from his fingers. “Rafi? This is red.”
Rafael feels about three feet tall, maybe five years old. He got it wrong again. And, unlike his kindergarten teacher, Carisi’s not going to buy that he’s just struggling with English. She’d never even bothered to see if he could get it right in Spanish. Carisi knows better.
Rafael should come up with a snappy comeback. An explanation. Something. Anything is better than just standing there, frozen. He can feel the embarrassment color his cheeks.
“Is it?” he manages weakly.
Carisi nods, but Rafael can see the gears turning behind his bright eyes as he fits together the pieces. Rafael’s own closet—perpetually in perfect rainbow order—the exact opposite of Carisi’s. The innumerable patterns on his shirts, his ties, his socks, and the way he never repeats patterns between washes. The color theory books inexplicably scattered amongst his law books and classic novels. The way he’d failed to find the man in the blue shirt Carisi had been trying to point out at lunch yesterday. The exchange a few days back where Rollins had accused him of trying to blind someone with his tie to which Rafael had replied “it’s chartreuse”, the ‘you uncultured heathen’ hanging silent in the air. Not green. Chartreuse.
“You’re colorblind,” Carisi says, slowly. A revelation.
Rafael doesn’t deign respond. He’s staring at Carisi’s naked torso because it’s easier to trace the faint edges of his ribs, easier to track the subtle movements of his breathing than try and suss out his expression.
“I didn’t know,” murmurs Carisi. His chest rises, falls.
Because he wasn’t supposed to. No one was. Rafael snorts as derisively as he can manage, though it’s really just a quick rush of breath. Tears are pinpricking his eyes.
“Do you even realize how amazing you are?”
Rafael’s eyes snap up to meet Carisi’s, which are crinkled at the edges from how he’s smiling softly. The pinprick tears are gone, but Rafael feels dizzy, not grounded, in his head more than in his body. “I can’t drive. Traffic lights don’t make sense. I can’t… I’m no—”
“Stop,” Carisi says, gently cupping one of Rafael’s cheeks in his large hand, still soft and warm from his shower. “You’re absolutely incredible.”
Rafael doesn’t want to admit how fast he nuzzles into Carisi’s touch. “You just have low standards.”
“Yeah, alright,” Carisi says, ever agreeable.
With one last gentle brush of his thumb against Rafael’s cheekbone, Carisi withdraws his hand. Rafael bites his tongue to keep from expressing his disappointment. He can’t, however, swallow his surprise as Carisi starts pulling on the shirt he’d brought.
“What are you doing?” Rafael asks.
Carisi pauses, one sleeve on, the other dangling uselessly. “Getting dressed?”
Rafael frowns. “But it’s red.” Carisi shrugs and pulls on the other sleeve, starts buttoning the shirt. “What color is your tie?”
“Gray with… pinky-purple stripes?”
Rafael winces. Usually he’d ask Carisi to be more specific—dark gray or light? Warm or cool? What does he even mean by “pinky-purple”? Is it more of a magenta or a fuchsia? This time, he doesn’t have to. Every bit of color theory he’s absorbed is screaming that this is an awful combination. “Are you sure you don’t want a black shirt?”
“Nah. This is fine.” Rafael is about to tell him how not fine it is, when Carisi snorts. “‘Sides. Serves me right for not getting my own shirt, am I right?”
“This once,” Rafael agrees. “Come here. At least let me tie your tie properly.”
Carisi sighs happily and obliges. Rafael’s hands make quick work of the knot, centering it carefully, smoothing the collar all the way around.
“Good?” Carisi asks. He proceeds to do a little twirl that nearly makes Rafael roll his eyes.
As long as Rafael puts aside the knowledge that Carisi’s outfit is clashing horribly, he actually does look good. The shirt Rafael picked out is cut well and shows off Carisi’s figure nicely. The outfit itself is plainer than anything Rafael would ever wear, but it somehow suits Carisi, especially when he beams hopefully at Rafael.
“You’re beautiful,” Rafael admits, a smile gracing his own face.
Carisi rolls his eyes. “Who has low standards now?”
Rafael smirks. “Still you.”
Carisi hums. He leans over to press a gentle kiss to Rafael’s forehead.
“There’s still time to get a black shirt, you know,” Rafael murmurs. “You wouldn’t hurt my feelings.”
Carisi shakes his head, grinning. “Not a chance. I finally got your seal of approval on one of my outfits. Besides, I need to go start breakfast. You want coffee or not?”
Of course Rafael wants coffee.
As he trails Carisi to the kitchen, Rafael starts mentally composing his reply for when Carisi inevitably texts him later complaining about Rollins mocking his outfit. He’s trying to figure out how to word his “I told you so” so that it doesn’t hurt Carisi’s feelings.
Because Carisi is Rafael’s kind of idiot—sweet and sensitive, with a heart too big for his own good. And Rafael’s going to do everything in his power to keep him around, clashing ties or not.