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Julian turns thirty at the end of the month, despite his apparent despair at the idea of aging.
It is very pedestrian, Garak thinks, to have a crisis each time a major birthday approaches. Something that should have been left behind in the past, in a time where death couldn’t be pushed further and further off, most diseases and signs of decay held at a careful distance.
But Julian is only human, after all - or so he tells Garak.
-
“I really must apologise,” Julian says over lunch. “I didn’t mean to snap at you like that yesterday.”
“No worries, doctor. This tale you’ve told me about a journey through your innermost thoughts and desires more than makes up for it.” Garak is swirling a spoon slowly around the inside of a dessert bowl. Their lunch is long since finished, but he has found, lately, that he often has a hard time leaving the table. Dessert has become a recent staple - it buys him a few more minutes of precious time. It helps, he thinks, that it was Julian’s idea.
“Thoughts and desires…” Julian huffs out a laugh. “I don’t know about that.”
“No? I’ve always thought that dreams can shed a lot of light on a person’s inner workings.”
“Really?” Julian asks, leaning forward, eyes glinting. “And what do you dream about, my dear Garak?”
Garak leans back in his chair, waving a hand loosely in the air. “Oh, you know,” he says. “Silk and velvet, mostly.”
“And what does that say about your innermost thoughts and desires, do you think?”
Garak feels his eyes snap back to Julian’s, faster and more intensely than he would have liked. His gaze, judging from Julian’s expression, indeed speaks of silks and wants. Oh well - it never hurts to give the good doctor a reminder that he is still here, waiting.
Then, Garak sighs, letting the moment dissipate in the air like smoke. “That I have a strong desire to pay my outstanding debt to one of my suppliers before they start sending assassins, I would assume. Now if you would excuse me, doctor, I have a meeting to attend.”
“A fitting?”
“No, not today. It’s Quark’s little organisation.”
“His… what, smuggling ring?”
“My, my, doctor. That you would have such a low opinion of me, to believe I would be a part of such an enterprise! It’s the Promenade Merchant Association, if you must know.”
“The Promenade -” Julian grins. “I would believe that you’re meeting him to buy an illegal cloaking device or something like that, but the Merchant Association… I really didn’t think you were the type, Garak!”
Garak sniffs. “Quark imposes a rather hefty fee on no calls, no shows, I’m afraid.”
“Of course.”
“And he usually has some delightful little pastries imported from the surface on offer.”
“Ah, so that’s where the smuggling comes in.”
“Indeed. But who knows - perhaps he has hidden my illegal cloaking device inside the cake box? I’ve been waiting for it for quite some time.”
“Yes, well, Quark really can’t be too careful. Odo is very thorough.”
“Purely for the safety of the station, I’m sure.”
“Undoubtedly.”
They smile at each other, then, lost in the moment, and Garak decides that this thread needs to be cut, now, before he does something stupid. He gives Julian a short, polite nod.
“Until later, then,” he says, and leaves.
-
And what was Garak doing on his thirtieth birthday? He thinks back, and can’t remember. Cooped up in a small room with bright lights, he guesses, waiting for one subject or other to crack. On a shuttle to some far-off world, maybe, rehearsing his cover story and his carefully prepared lies. Skulking around in the shadows of a world that never seemed to let him step into its warm light, despite his best efforts. It’s not that different, he thinks bitterly, being cold and alone at home or cold and alone on the station.
-
Ten minutes past thirteen hundred, Garak ponders whether or not he should start sending invoices to the infirmary for late arrivals. His rush fee is quite steep - it might give the doctor some incentive.
Five more minutes, and Garak decides to order food for the both of them.
Three more, and -
“Sorry, sorry,” Julian says, throwing himself into the chair across from Garak. “I couldn’t get away, there was a toddler meltdown and a parental meltdown and I almost quit on the spot.”
Garak looks up from the padd he is holding, not reading, and takes in Julian’s harried appearance. Hair sticking out in all directions, uniform askew, and still he feels his stomach flip. He schools his face into something resembling neutral, and lets the padd clatter down on the table.
“Not a problem, doctor,” he says, but Julian still looks distraught.
“I really don’t mean to keep showing up late like this, I just lose track of time sometimes, and I can’t just up and leave in the middle of an appointment... Anyway, I’m sorry. It will probably happen again.”
Garak sighs. “Oh, I quite understand. I barely know the month or the day of the week anymore.” A lie. “Too much time on this station will do that to you.” And the truth.
“Actually, that was one of the things on the con-side of my list before I accepted this position. It would be the same on a starship, of course, but I’d never been anywhere where you couldn’t look outside, see the trees and the grass and the sky…” Julian trails off, digging into his food. Then, with his mouth full: “Oh well, it all worked out in the end.”
“And what was on the pros-side of your list?” Garak asks. “You couldn’t possibly have foreseen our riveting and endlessly stimulating literary debates all the way back on Earth.” He holds up a finger. “Wait, don’t tell me. Frontier medicine.”
Blood rushes to Julian’s face, then, painting his cheeks a lovely pink.
“That was… Perhaps not the wisest thing I’ve ever said. To Major Kira, specifically.”
If Garak had less control of his facial movement, his jaw might have dropped. “You said that to the Major? Oh, my dear doctor.”
“I know, I know… Well, I’ve learned my lesson.”
Swiftly changing the subject, Julian launches himself into a summary of a large number of studies that he has read on the effects of artificial circadian rhythms on the human and non-human body - as always, when the doctor goes on one of his medical tirades, Garak opts for the smile and nod tactic. He has the distinct feeling that Julian’s other friends don’t quite have the patience to sit through them. For Garak’s part, he gets to watch a beautiful young man explain the subject that he is most passionate about in this world with his eyes alight and sauce flying from his fork, which is, in a way, its own reward.
“Still,” Julian says, “There is a difference between knowing, intellectually, that there are measures in place to keep the mind and body from being impacted, and looking out of the porthole to see… gaping darkness.”
“That’s a bit maudlin, don’t you think?”
“Well, it’s that time of the year,” Julian says, without further explanation.
-
The next day, Julian drops by the shop. Garak’s hands are full of fabric and his mouth is full of pins, which makes his greeting come out quite muffled.
“Doctor!” he says, quickly removing the pins and dropping them into his magnetic holder. “What a lovely surprise.”
Julian is glancing around the space, taking in the fabrics and the garments and the rolls of buttons in their holder on the wall. From his hand dangles a large, square bag.
The doctor does not come here often, for whatever reason. Perhaps he has decided that the Replimat is a safe and neutral arena, whereas Garak’s home turf is not. It’s a reasonable decision, and besides, it’s not like Garak drops by the infirmary unless he is physically wrangled there and indisposed enough to be unable to make a run for it.
Maybe he will drop a line about his skill in creating holosuite costumes during their next lunch.
“Hello, hello,” Julian says, releasing the sleeve of the jacket he was fiddling with. “I have something for you.”
“If it’s the notice about my yearly rent increase, I’m afraid the constable already beat you to it.”
Julian laughs then, relaxing a bit, his thin shoulders dropping.
“No, it’s not that. And why would Odo come here to hand you documents about your rent? That’s not his job.”
“He seems to find enjoyment out of trying to place listening devices around the bulkheads.”
“And you find enjoyment in ripping them out, I assume?”
“I would, if he ever got as far as to actually install them. I seem to have caught him in the act a couple of times now. Purely by chance, I assure you.”
“You run a tight ship,” Julian grins.
“Well, I try. Now, you said you had something for me?”
“It’s just a small thing, but you said you had trouble keeping track of time.”
I did? Garak thinks, before remembering his fib from the day before. “I did.”
Garak wanders to the back of the shop, and Julian, bless him, follows. You have to seize every chance you come across - his father taught him that lesson well.
Julian pulls an object out of his bag, square and made of thick paper.
“A Bajoran-Federation calendar,” Julian says, as he hands it over. “I liked the artwork on it, and I thought…”
“That I might, too?”
“Something like that.”
“Then, I am most grateful for this gift. Thank you, doctor.”
Garak flips through the pages, inspecting the art in question. It seems to be abstract, made up out of large blocks of different shades of the same colour. Dark blues, dark reds, dark greys. He finds them attractive, if a bit boring to look at. The artist’s name is written in Standard beneath each of the pieces, with the title of the work next to it. The titles, too, are boring; Untitled, Untitled (Red), No. 61… He would have thought that a Federation artist, unbound by concepts like paying rent, would come up with something a bit more creative.
“Will you stay for a cup of tea?” he asks a moment later, putting the calendar on the low table by the armchairs that he keeps for customer consultations. Tea takes several minutes to cool down and several more to drink - and he is always trying to buy or steal or trade himself more time.
He sees Julian think it over, glance at the door and back, and then make his decision.
“Sure, if you’re not too busy.”
Garak looks pointedly around the empty shop. “I wouldn’t say that I am, no.”
“Then I would love a cup,” Julian says, and settles gingerly into one of the armchairs. Garak brings over the mugs a moment later, nestles them next to the folded calendar on the little table.
For a moment, there is silence between them. The only word left in Garak’s mind is stay, but he can’t say that, so he reaches for something, anything else. He flips the calendar open, turns the pages until he reaches the current month. It’s autumn on Bajor and on Earth, or so they tell him. Winter would just be setting in on Cardassia - but it still would be warmer there than on the station. He’s never seen snow before, but he imagines it to be a nightmare.
“Now, tell me, is there a reason why this month is called August?” he asks, and watches Julian’s eyes light up.
“Oh, it’s a pretty interesting story, actually,” he begins, and tells a long tale about an emperor who had remade the Terran calendar some millenia back, naming the new months in honour of other emperors, and crucially, himself. “Funny enough,” the doctor tells him, “this new calendar is called the Julian calendar, after the emperor.”
“And the old one was called the Romulan?”
“Roman,” Julian corrects. “There’s actually a famous play about this emperor’s life and death, I read it way back in school… You’ll like it, there’s a lot of plotting and backstabbing. Maybe that will be my next gift to you, when we finish this awful Guls of The Northern Reaches nonsense.”
“Why, yes, it’s only one of the finest works in our canon.”
“And Julius Cesar is one of the finest works in ours.”
“I think I will be the judge of that,” Garak tells him, and drinks the last of his tea, now almost gone cold. Precious time.
After Julian leaves, he takes the time to read about the artist behind the different works in the calendar. Upon further inspection, the colours seem to become richer and more nuanced, layer upon layer of paint on top of each other, creating the harmonious whole. Digging deeper into the databases, he finds a sort of artistic thesis statement, delivered three hundred or so years ago. Perhaps this man was concerned with rent, after all.
After preoccupation with death (check) and sensuality (dubious check), he reads; Ten percent hope to make the tragic concept more endurable. He wonders, idly, how many long and lonely years those ten percent are meant to hold out for.
-
Jadzia throws Julian a party, of course.
It’s at Quark’s - where else? - and it seems like the entire senior staff and most of the civilian population have pressed itself into the tiny space. He tries not to think about the push of bodies, the stale air and the sweet smell of spilled drinks, making the soles of his boots stick with every step. He finds some respite on the upper level, where the crowd is thinner.
He knows that Julian worries about what he calls Garak’s tendencies towards addictive behaviour, and so he makes sure to only refill his glass when the doctor’s attention is elsewhere. Luckily, Julian spends the evening being pulled in all different directions at once, which leaves Garak with a warm buzzing in his head and a gentle rocking and rolling of the room, like a ship at sea. It helps with the slow inward creep of the walls.
Julian finds him in a corner, where he’s entertaining himself by explaining pattern construction to an unsuspecting ensign whose eyes are becoming more glazed by the second.
“You came,” he says, putting his hand on Garak’s elbow. “I’m glad. I didn’t think you would.”
Garak hadn’t thought so either, until a couple of hours ago. He revels in conversation, yes, but parties have never been his area.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Garak says, and Julian smiles at him as if he hung the moon.
The ensign, glancing quickly between human and Cardassian, decides to seize the moment and escape.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” Garak asks the ensign’s retreating back, changing the subject.
Julian laughs, pushing his hand through his hair, fingers catching on a knot. He might be a little drunk, too. “I am. It all seems a bit silly now, getting so upset over turning another year older.”
“And our little life is rounded with a sleep,” Garak remarks, loftily, and Julian pulls a face.
“It really doesn’t sound right, with you saying it.”
“No?”
“Too much contempt.”
“I shall endeavour to treat your trite little authors with more reverence in the future, doctor, although I can’t make any promises.”
Julian laughs again, a sweet and pearly sound, like a stream. “You’re talking differently,” he says.
“No I’m not.”
“You are. More… careful.” It’s true - whenever Garak has been drinking, he takes unnecessary care with his pronunciation. Specifically, of course, when the language he’s speaking is not his own.
“Federation Standard is not my mother tongue. You would forgive me if I tried my best not to butcher your beloved, if primitive, language.”
Julian smiles at him, softly. “You’ve never butchered any language, I think.”
You’d be surprised, he almost says. My mother speaks only in the dialect of the servile and the poor. It had been beaten out of him eventually, of course, his accent turning plain and anonymous, untied to any place or person. Not that Julian would be able to tell the difference, his Kardasi being near non-existent.
Maybe that would be his next project. Teaching Julian the lilts and pitch accents of his world, letting him take the original vowels and consonants of Iloja and Preloc in his mouth. Translation always left something off the page, something subtle but crucial.
Julian still hasn’t let go of his elbow.
“Come downstairs,” he says, eyes wide and irresistible. “Jadzia is just about to start up a game.”
He glances down at the lower level, where Jadzia is holding court, brandishing a deck of cards. He considers the close quarters, the fact that he will have to squeeze through the crowd of people on the stairs to get down. Considers Julian, his expectant expression.
“Alright,” he says.
Garak clears them all out, easily, and leans back to revel in his victory. Julian claps his hands, clearly impressed - and that too, is a prize.
He has spent his life in an unrecruited love affair with a family that doesn’t want him and a world that has taken its warmth from his skin. But perhaps, he thinks, looking on Julian's radiant face, the way he almost folds himself over the table laughing at one of Jadzia's stories - perhaps his ten percent of hope will last him a little while longer. The doctor, it seems, has a bottomless cup to pour from.
Later, alone on the promenade, with the last straggles retreating back to their quarters, he looks out of the porthole. Gaping darkness, yes, but with a smattering of stars.
-
Julian turns forty at the heat death of the universe.
“I shouldn’t call it that. It’s offensive, maybe?”
“A little, perhaps. It’s only the heat death of Cardassia, after all. And fortunately for us, the sun will rise again in the morning.”
The drop in temperature as the sun sets is jarring, usually resulting in Julian diving for cover inside the warm cocoon of his grey cashmere sweater, frayed and worn with age. Garak had made it for him, half a decade ago, in preparation for another birthday.
“Sweating all day, freezing all night…” Julian grumbles, pulling the battered shirt over his head. It’s a tired refrain, and Garak mouths the final words along with him.
“I could mend that hole in the elbow for you,” Garak offers, and Julian nods.
“Please. I’ll consider it a birthday present.”
Julian wangles himself out of the sweater again, dropping it next to Garak as he rifles though his box of scrap yarn, looking for a match. The doctor drops himself down on the edge of the armchair, settling in by Garak’s side. If he’s looking for warmth, he is out of luck.
There are crow’s feet at the corners of Julian’s eyes as he lets them slide close, strands of white at his temples. It is a lesson in contradiction - the beauty that doesn’t fade with time, the fact that they are edging closer, year by year, to the end. It’s a silly thought, impractical. Julian has probably not even lived half of his life yet.
“I need my elbows free, dear.”
“Mm. Maybe in a moment,” Julian mumbles, and Garak decides that this is an acceptable compromise. Preoccupation with death can wait, if only for a short while.