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Julian can feel the conversation hovering over them the entire way back home. Garak’s expression is unreadable now, but it certainly had not been unreadable at the dinner table, during Julian’s performance of his gymnastic social prowess in fitting an entire leg in his mouth at once.
Not rushing into marriage so you have time to think about making mistakes, what a genius you are, Julian.
He decides the best thing to do is face it head on immediately and give it no time to fester, so the moment the door closes behind them he says “Garak—”
“What a lovely home the O’Briens have,” Garak says mildly.
Not a good sign.
“Garak—”
“Little Molly is quite the conversationalist, isn’t she?”
“Garak, when I said—”
“An unmistakable talent at putting her finger on the pulse.”
“I didn’t mean—”
His mouth snaps shut when Garak turns to look at him. That mild, nonchalant expression on his face is more concerning in this moment than any anger or hurt could be.
“You were simply trying to say that you do not wish to be married, and would prefer to continue on as we are. I quite understand.”
That should be reassuring. It isn’t.
“What do you want?” Julian asks.
“I want you to be happy and content in our relationship,” Garak says mildly.
“You know what I mean. Do you want to be married?”
Garak arches an eyebrow.
“My dear doctor, what would you do if I said yes? Would you allow me to push you into a union you aren’t comfortable with? Resign yourself to a potential mistake?”
Julian doesn’t flinch, doesn’t take the bait.
“So you do want to get married.”
“I said no such thing.”
“But you do,” he insists. “You would never bring up hypotheticals like that unless you’re testing my reaction or you’re upset with me and want to make me uncomfortable, and if you are upset it’s because of this conversation we’re having right now.”
Part of Julian gloats at Garak’s wide-eyed reaction.
“My goodness,” Garak says. “You do know me well.”
“I should hope so. And you’re avoiding the question. Saying it doesn’t matter is not an answer. It very clearly does matter to you, and if it matters to you, it matters to me. I am not the most important person in this relationship.”
“I’m not the only one avoiding a question,” Garak retorts.
Julian is quiet.
“You never mentioned it,” he says at last.
“And it never occurred to you.”
“You just don’t strike me as the marrying kind.”
Garak’s smile is wry.
“Neither you to me.”
“But—”
“My dear,” Garak says, almost sweetly. “Let’s not quarrel over something so academic. I am perfectly happy to continue on as we are, forever.”
It is academic, isn’t it? Living together, loving each other, with no intention or desire to leave, doing this for the rest of their lives – functionally, there is no difference between that and marriage, save a little check box on a file somewhere. And yet, the idea of being married makes Julian feel like he’s standing over a dark pit that will swallow him whole and trap him forever with no escape.
Which is even more ridiculous, because divorce is legal and easy to attain. They have no joint accounts, own no property, have no children. The social and emotional consequences would be no more dire than if he and Garak were to break up right now.
And yet.
Julian had never been one for commitment, of any kind. He’d never lived with any partner before, never even considered it before Garak.
They’d been at that stage where they had spare clothes in each other’s drawers and toiletries in the wash rooms and odds and ends scattered across both spaces. It was the third time Julian had had to tear apart two apartments looking for something he’d lost that he’d exclaimed in exasperation I think we should just move in together.
He’d been so shocked at himself – not just that it had been him saying it, but at how obvious and natural the idea had seemed – that he’d missed Garak’s answer and had to ask him to repeat himself.
Marriage, on the other hand...
“It just doesn’t seem fair to you,” Julian says weakly.
“Fair!” Garak repeats with great amusement. “Oh, doctor, your naiveté never fails to amuse—”
“Don’t.” The word comes out much sharper than he’d intended. “Do not use that condescending, man-of-the-world, I-know-better-than-you voice at me, not during a serious conversation. You know I hate when you do that.”
Garak smirks and does not apologize. He’s winding Julian up deliberately, trying to get him so angry he’ll end the conversation and storm off. If Julian calls him on it, though, Garak will just blame it on Cardassian flirting.
As always.
Julian wants to end the conversation. He wants to pretend to fall for the Cardassian flirting and have sex and go to sleep and pretend this never happened. He does not like having conversations like this because it makes him think about how tightly bound he is to Garak and that is terrifying.
The easy out is to say that marriage doesn’t mean anything to him, that because there’d be no difference there’s no point in it, so why bother? But that’s a coward’s answer and he knows it. If marriage truly didn’t mean anything to him, he wouldn’t be bothered by getting married because it’s what Garak wants.
“If I wanted to be married,” Garak says, “and if it was so important to me that we must make a decision, what are the options? To get married when you don’t want to, leading to a growing resentment and discomfort that drives us apart, or to end our relationship entirely here and now. I would much prefer to leave things as they are, wouldn’t you?”
Julian has to take a moment to let it sink in. Not the words, but what they mean.
“You’ve thought about this,” he says quietly. “You’ve been worrying about this.”
Garak scoffs.
“Don’t be rid—”
“I am not being ridiculous! This is not ridiculous, what you want is not ridiculous! You matter to me, what you want matters, so stop dancing around it just because you’re afraid!”
Garak’s expression is perfectly neutral, not even showing mild interest, which these days says more to Julian that any display of emotion ever could.
“I am not going anywhere,” Julian says quietly. Garak says nothing, and his expression does not change. He doesn’t move a muscle.
Julian sighs and turns away. He thumps down on the couch and hunches over, rubbing his face with his hand.
“You see?” Garak says in that light, chiding tone. “This is what comes of pointless conversations. Everyone gets upset and nothing is resolved.”
“It’s not pointless,” Julian protests, running a hand through his hair. “This is ridiculous!” he exclaims. “Why does it matter?”
“You are the one who won’t let it go,” Garak says frostily. “I have said multiple times I am quite content to carry on as we are.”
“Not you,” Julian says, “me! Why does it matter to me? Why do I care so much about this? I love you! I don’t want to go anywhere! So why am I being so, so…”
It’s habit, he knows. Patterns of behavior, mental grooves worn deep, synapses firing down familiar routes, knee-jerk reactions to old fears, he knows that. It doesn’t make it any easier to stop.
He puts his head in his hands. No one speaks. Garak does not join Julian on the couch. He stays standing on the other side of the room and it feels like he is miles away and getting further every second. Julian needs to let this go before that distance becomes impassible.
“I did not bring it up,” Garak says, “because it is merely a product of my upbringing. Cardassians take family very seriously. Living together without so much as an engagement is…well, the older generations would find it simply scandalous.”
Julian looks up at him. Garak’s smirk invites him to share genuine amusement.
“I’ll admit, it gave me quite a thrill when you suggested it.” The smile becomes less genuine and Garak turns away, wiping at non-existent dust on the nearby shelf, straightening already straight decorations. “But these things do take root quite deep, and so there are occasions when I entertain a passing fancy.”
The choice of words is clearly intended to make light of it, to dismiss the desire as unimportant, but it has the opposite effect. The idea of Garak daydreaming about their wedding in his spare moments – perhaps when he’s working, perhaps even when he and Julian lay in bed together – and then forcing himself to dismiss them as impossible, unattainable. Pointless dreams.
It breaks Julian’s heart more than anything else could.
“I see,” is all he manages to say.
“Precisely,” Garak says, turning to Julian but not quite meeting his eyes. “Nothing to—”
Julian stands up.
“Then we’ll get married.”
“…worry about,” Garak finishes lamely. “What?”
“We’re going to get married.” The more he says it, the more confident he feels.
“You don’t want—”
“I’ll get over it,” Julian snaps. “It’s important to you personally and culturally, and I am not going to let my hangups get in the way of your happiness.”
“I wasn’t trying to—”
Julian storms across the room and jabs a finger at Garak’s chest.
“I am accepting no arguments, Garak. You and I are getting married whether you like it or not. Tomorrow, we start looking for matrimonial bands, and if you don’t have sketches for our wedding suits by the end of the week, I’m breaking up with you and moving in with the O’Briens.”
Garak’s breath hitches in his throat, his eyes wide.
“Why, doctor,” he says. “I am quite intrigued by this…forceful side of you.”
And Julian knows he means I love you for this. He wraps his arm around Garak’s waist and pulls him in roughly.
“Good,” he growls. “Because you’re stuck with me now.”
Some time later, Julian wakes up to the soft skritch skritch of pencil on paper. Garak is sitting up in bed, drawing. He told Julian once that he always prefers to do his sketches on paper. Something about the physicality of it. Julian doesn’t mind, as long as he’s careful to keep the eraser shavings off the bed.
He rolls over and nuzzles at Garak’s hip. Garak smiles down at him briefly, but does not stop.
“I won’t actually break up with you if you don’t have the designs ready, you know.”
“Of course I know,” Garak says. “But I have some ideas I’d like to get down.”
With a groan, Julian pushes himself up on his arms and pressed himself against Garak, his cheek against the cool pebbled skin.
His brow furrows. Garak is not drawing suits. Instead, he is drawing dresses. Julian wouldn’t mind if Garak would prefer to wear a dress, but these – poofy sleeves and petticoats and bedecked in ribbons – don’t seem Garak’s style.
Then he notices the proportions.
“Ah,” he says. “Looks like Molly’s getting her flower girl dress after all.”
Garak, not looking up, gives one of his more enigmatic smiles.
“She truly is a remarkable girl.”