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“What do you call that?” Garak asked in a voice that gave nothing away.
Julian gave a little saunter, shooting some finger guns at the Cardassian. He was wearing a plaid shirt over a white t-shirt, which he had replicated for his foray into 1990s culture on the holodeck with Miles. It was, perhaps, a little too garish for his tastes, but he wasn’t going to let Garak know that. Flashing a grin at him, Julian sat down opposite the tailor and took a sip of his drink.
“It’s called plaid, Garak, you should try it some time. It might brighten up your wardrobe.”
Garak took in the sight of Julian once more, smiling in that clever way he did where nobody could ever tell what he was thinking or if there might be something insidious behind it. Then he reached out, as if to touch the fabric.
“May I?”
“Of course.”
The tailor touched the fabric softly, his thumb just inside the sleeve while his fingers ran along the outer cuff. Then he ran his hand from the elbow to the wrist, turning Julian’s arm over to inspect little details, seemingly taking in everything about this piece of clothing that Julian had never even thought to notice. Once satisfied, Garak slid his hand away from the shirt, stopping to hold Julian’s hand in his, palm up, as if he could tell more about the shirt from his skin than the actual material. Then, he let go and withdrew his hands to his side of the table. He was the very personification of ‘keeping your cards close to your chest’.
“Well, what did you learn?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing at all?”
“Only that you have very soft hands, Doctor. Very soft indeed.”
“And there I was thinking you were going to deduce the entire illustrious history of plaid from just this replicated shirt.”
“Hm. And what do you know of it? Anything that might interest a simple tailor?”
“I could tell you about its origins in Scotland, and how the material itself was dyed and woven locally, which is how certain houses and clans first laid claim to their own unique plaids or tartans. Or about how the shirts came about as practical workwear for railroad workers and lumberjacks. Or how originally it was an entirely wholesome fashion choice, and it wasn’t until the 1990s that ‘grunge’ came along and subverted its symbolism by ripping or burning the shirts, tying them around waists, essentially rejecting the cultures of times gone by in favour of their own way of living. Perhaps, more interestingly, though, is how the plaid flannel shirt became a symbol of queer culture in some circles, stretching for quite some decades after that.”
Julian had been watching Garak’s face while he spoke, and knew precisely when his ears would prick up. The doctor had enjoyed every second of his time in the holosuite with Miles, fully immersed in the culture of a society long since crumbled. They did know how to have fun, and Julian had relished in every second of it. There was such a celebration of queerness in some places, nightclubs where people could let loose and truly be who they were meant to be. He got the sense that those places, under the lights and amongst the crowd, were sometimes the only place where those people felt safe to be who they were. To love who they loved. The outside world had once been very cruel to folks who didn’t fit into the traditions of that era.
“Well, I am a man of culture, Julian. And history lessons are important. I suppose it couldn’t hurt to hear some of your tales from the holosuite,” Garak responded amiably, still not letting on just how much he wanted to hear everything that Julian had to say. “I’ll fetch another bottle of whatever this is. Shall we take it to my shop and have a drink in private?”
Now it was Julian’s turn to prick his ears up. He loved it when Garak made such offers, for it meant the night was going to be full of intrigue and secrets and intimate moments that were theirs and theirs alone. The doctor smiled his youthful smile, and Garak smiled his knowing one, and the pair of them drifted quietly away from Quark’s bar to find some privacy, some peace and quiet, and most importantly, each other.