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Garak acknowledged, if only in his private mind, all the things that he and Bashir were to each other. Friends, lovers, partners, sometimes accomplices in matters both professional and private.
But in the end, the thing that might, out of all of them, have meant the most to him, were the times they were pillows to each other.
It didn’t matter whether it was Bashir curled up beside him, his head trustingly resting on Garak’s chest, gently moving up and down with each breath, or whether it was he who was daring to relax, his head on Bashir’s chest, hearing the comforting sound of Bashir’s heartbeat saying that, in this moment at least, all was well, all was well, all was well.
They’d both grown up what in the Federaji language was ‘touch-starved’. It was a phrase that seemed extremely apt, in his opinion. Certainly, it had felt like a feast after famine, those rare times when he’d touched or been touched.
Even when he was still in the Order, supposedly above and beyond such things, there had been a thrill - far more than the excitement of the hunt - to touching and being touched.
Especially in bed. Whether gentle, wooing words, or the fierce fight of aggression, the touch… the touch was everything.
It was one of the few places he questioned the training giving to Obsidian Order operatives. If touch, of whatever kind, was forced to be so rare, didn’t it follow that there was a danger of becoming attached? Wouldn’t it follow that being encouraged – up to a point and in carefully monitored conditions, of course – to touch and be touched would render it common, unworthy of further or undue note or comment?
Be that as it may, he’d been raised touch-starved, gone into and through Bamarren touch-starved, passed through his career touch-starved, and been exiled to this station touch-starved, where he’d lived touch-starved, until the stars-thanked day when Julian Bashir took him firmly in hand and fed him a tactile feast.
And continued to feed him ‘til this day.
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He did not know much about Bashir’s life before he’d come to the former Terok Nor, current Deep Space Nine. Bashir had – delightfully and frustratingly – been nearly as non-forthcoming as he himself, at least when it came to his former life and formative years.
He suspected more than he knew, but judging by the hungry way Bashir had come to his arms, it was likely that he’d also grown up without a lot of tactile comfort. Additional proof provided – tho’ much less desired – by the near-constant stream of lovers Bashir had invited to his bed before choosing to join Garak in his.
Regardless, they were together now, and the chances to touch and be touched were amazing.
It didn’t really matter to him how they touched – the delightful dance of love-making or the no-less-wonderful chance to cuddle or anything in-between.
What mattered was that they touched.
What mattered was that touch was mutually thrilling, mutually satisfying.
And at the same time, left them both aching for more.
It made it worth the risks – the very real risks, despite what Bashir… Julian, thought – made it worth the extra care, the additional precautions.
There was little that Garak would not do to be able to continue to touch Julian Bashir. He’d realized that a long time ago, made the decision to allow it, to take it into account when evaluating his weaknesses.
He made sure to keep this depth of desire hidden from Julian. He suspected it would make the good Doctor uncomfortable to know just how much his touch mattered.
He knew it would make the good Doctor uncomfortable to know just how far he’d go to keep it.
So he said nothing of it, and they continued to make pillows out of one another as often as they possibly could and life, such as it was on a cold and lonely station out in space, went on.
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