julian-jumping-around

anonymous asked:

Could you write garashir where they throw a huge party that's also masquerade

Julian had no idea where Quark had gotten the taffeta from, but he greatly enjoyed the addition. The soft grey silk softened the harsh lines of the DS9 promenade. Quark had artfully arranged other colors as well: blues and yellows and greens and bright oranges and dark reds. Each section of the promenade was a different color and set a different mood.

Julian was currently standing in the yellow corner and scratching at his mask, watching in amusement as Quark fell all over himself with joy at the ever-growing pile of latinum before him. Although fifty percent would be donated to the Bajoran war orphan fund, Quark didn’t seem to mind. Likely because fifty percent of that was still quite a bit, indeed. Julian took another sip of his synthale and allowed the warmth to infuse his body. Lively music began to play; something he vaguely recognized from that Bajoran composer. He tapped his toe to the beat.

“A fine suit, sir. Might I get the name of your tailor?”

Julian jumped and whirled around, frowning into the mask of the man addressing him. It was a lovely jade-green thing with arching wings above the eyes, perfectly accentuating the deep forest tones of the man’s suit. Although the high neck utterly hid his ridges, the grey skin around his smiling mouth still gave him away.

“Garak.”

“Ah, yes,” Garak said, teasing. “The tailor on the promenade. I believe I’ve seen his work before.” Garak reached out and ran dancing fingers up Julian’s arm, precisely along the seam. “Do you go to him often.”

Julian chuckled, allowing him to fall easily into Garak’s little masquerade. After all, this was a night of anonymity–although on a station like this, no real secrets were possible. A game of pretend, then. “Not as often as I’d like,” he said. “I find he’s often too busy to deal with my petty problems.”

“A shame.” Garak had not dropped his hand. “I can see that he has a steady hand. This suit is a work of artistry–although I’m sure he would refuse to admit such a thing.”

“Oh, no. Garak is far too modest. He needs people like us to speak up for him. To discuss his…skills.”

“And what of them?” Garak’s blue eyes glinted behind his mask, and he suddenly seemed a great deal closer than he had before.

Julian let it happen. “You noted yourself his steady hands,” he whispered, speaking just above the sound of the flute playing so that Garak had to lean even closer to hear. “His eye for detail is also unparalleled. Note, here.” He took Garak’s hand in his and pressed it to the indent of his waist. “It fits me like a glove.”

“You do cut a fine figure, Doctor.”

Julian grinned at Garak’s slip. In their fantasy they hadn’t introduced themselves, so how could he know he was a doctor? He let it go. “I’ll pass on your compliments,” he said softly.

Garak’s smile softened slightly, slipping past sly and into genuine affection. Julian always enjoyed those little smiles; he coveted them. “I should like to see the seams tested. Have you been dancing yet?”

“Not yet. I’m afraid I haven’t had anyone ask.”

“A truly deplorable situation. Very well, I shall remedy it. Would you dance with me?”

“I would like nothing better.” He accepted Garak’s hand and left his half-empty drink at the table.

To his surprise, Garak lead him out of the yellow-draped room and past edges of the lively dance number. The colors on the promenade gradually shifted until they were surrounded by swaths of deep, rich reds and burgundy, highlighted by stunning silver. The silver made Garak’s skin seem to glow just as warm as Julian felt. He held Garak’s hand as the other came to his waist.

“I’ll lead,” Garak breathed into his ear. “If you don’t mind.”

“It seems to be your favorite past time.”

The music here was gentler; the people danced more closely to one another. He and Garak followed their example, slipping their bodies close enough that he could feel Garak’s heart beating. He dropped his chin to rest against Garak’s shoulder and wished he had invested in a suit with a shorter neck. He should very much like to kiss the ridges there and leave Garak trembling on the dance floor.

Instead, he really did let Garak lead, and Garak was a marvelous leader. He spun Julian out and in and then curled around him, rocking them in time with the music. He dipped Julian and Julian gazed up into his eyes, letting a smile play across his lips. Garak’s own smile had vanished, replaced by a gently burning intensity that made Julian hold his breath in anticipation.

They danced and the lines between their fantasy and their reality blurred. Garak’s hand on his were of two kinds: the hands of a tailor and of a lover. His eyes were both sly and soft. His lips were… well, they were just the same as always. Kissable, yet just out of reach.

The dance number ended and Julian came away panting. Garak didn’t seem to have broken a sweat, although of course Cardassians didn’t sweat over such silly things as exertion. Julian smiled at him and bowed his head.

“Well? Did my tailor’s stitches hold up to your satisfaction?”

Garak studied him as the music picked up again. The moment drew on almost too long, but then Garak smiled. “They did. There is, however, a second test which we might employ.”

“Oh?”

“Your suit moves quite well with you.” Garak’s hands settled on his waist again. “But I do wonder how it would perform under a more…stressful situation.”

“Stressful?” Julian asked.

“Stressful,” Garak confirmed, thumbing open the first button on his suit jacket.

The act thrilled Julian unexpectedly, although he really ought to have seen it coming. He smiled back, trying to keep his cool. “I think I could enjoy a little stress.”

Garak inclined his head, and his hand came up to entangle with Julian’s. Julian let him tug him from the promenade, his heart beating in his chest. Garak’s handsome profile was darkly enticing in the half-light of the corridors, and it made Julian gulp with desire.

He had the feeling that he would soon be testing how well his suit got rid of wrinkles after it lay, discarded, on the floor near his bed all night.