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Despite the precision with which the cutlery was laid, Garak tapped the fork into place for the twentieth time.
He looked up as the doors swished and smiled softly at Bashir as he stumbled in.
"Another late evening at the clinic?" he asked, setting a plate in front of him and sitting himself at the table.
"It was awful," Bashir began, poking at the food on his plate, and starting a litany of complaints. Only when he caught the gleam in Garak's eye and the smirk on his lips did he stop. "What?"
Garak smiled concentrating on his food, avoiding eye contact.
"It's all right, Julian," he said, "you're young - you should enjoy yourself."
"I don't understand."
"It's fine, really, you don't need to lie about this. You don’t have to pretend."
Bashir still stared at him tiredly, chewing, trying to comprehend. A moment later, his dark eyes brightened with comprehension, then clouded with rage. He threw his napkin on his plate and pushed his chair back noisily. A storm of emotion was brewing just beneath his surface, but he wasn’t going to let it through.
“I can’t take anymore of this,” was all he said before yanking the combadge from his uniform, slamming it on the table, and walking from their quaters.
They’d had the argument before, but this was the first time that Garak hadn’t verbalised his accusation, and the first time that Bashir wasn’t forced to vehemently deny any infidelity. Garak stared at the doors for a very long time.
It was an hour before he found him, sitting slouched on a bench in an empty part of the station. Garak sat beside him, hands in his lap. Bashir didn’t look up.
Garak knew the next words were his, that they were inevitable, that the silence was justified, because there could be nothing else said in their place. And, despite the practice he had had in the last several months in articulating them, they still came with great difficulty and shame and self-loathing.
“I’m sorry.”
Only silence passed between them for a few moments, and Garak feared that his words hadn’t been heard, or had been ignored. His eyes traced the soft curve of Bashir’s face, his eyes beautiful even when they weren’t looking at him, maybe especially then, giving him the intense desire to stroke his cheek, but not in this moment.
“I don’t understand why you do this,” Bashir said, still staring at the ground, hands gripping the bench tightly.
Garak opened his mouth, then paused and closed it again. Every other time this discussion had surfaced, he was quick to say any thoughtless thing, to end it, to not wonder when it would come up again. Instead, he took a moment to reflect, to not begin with accusations, conjectured facts, suppositions borne of insecurity but pronounced with certitude: “It’s only a matter of time before you come to your senses and leave me, Julian. A handsome young man like yourself, it wouldn’t be surprising.” The words that formed instead were even more difficult to pronounce than an apology.
“I’m afraid,” he whispered.
His body ran cold with nerves, and he was now being stared at, Bashir’s look full of surprise at the rare honesty. Garak felt himself trembling ever so slightly, and thought he was going to be ill.
“I don’t understand why you’re with me,” he confessed quickly, quietly. “I don’t know why you tolerate me, I’m afraid you’ll realise you deserve better and that this won’t last for long.”
Bashir placed a hand over his, antagonism replaced by earnestness.
“This will last as long as you want it to,” he said. “It's your choice. I’m not going to leave you.”
“But I don’t understand why.”
“Because I chose you.”
Garak allowed himself to be embraced. The stars were steadfast pinpoints speckling the window in front of them.