Bashir was just staring at the rum's bottle etiquette and mindlessly blurting out, "Aneeejoooo!!!!" with a distinct Arabian inflection and to no-one in particular. Garak had figured out into the fifth repetition that Anejo was the name splayed on the label. At Garak's words, however, he clambered to wobbly feet and pointed dramatically at the tailor. "Y'just dunno how'to keep," he took a moment to relieve silent gas before finishing with, "T'keep yer liqu'r."

Garak grabbed the bottle of kanar and waved it warningly at Bashir as he, too, climbed to unsteady feet. "I'll have y'know ..." he paused, breathing in, then added, "... that I was the BEST drink'r in my field." With this confirmation of his outstanding talents, Garak leaned his head back and tilted the neck of the bottle toward his lips. When merely a drop slid out to hit his tongue, he made a disappointed noise and tried to lift his head. "Ooooh, spinning, fun!" He again broke into chuckles, then let the bottle drop from nerveless hands onto the couch.

Bashir laughed at that, and let himself sit heavily on his chair again. He held his head, then, blinked. "I can't feel m'face." He giggled, poking his lips, then his cheeks. "This's weird ..." Garak collapsed stoutly beside him, and joined the poking. Bashir laughed and batted his hands away. "Stop it!" Bashir's mood suddenly dropped, and he leaned back, staring ahead dejectedly. "Why'm I alone, Garak? Why can't I find a nice woman and stick with h'r? Why ... why am I this way? I don't want t'be alone," he said anguishly.

Garak laid his head on Julian's chest and cooed, "Then let me help you not be lonely - I can y'know, it's awfully lon'ly for me too." Under any ordinary circumstances, Garak would have sooner announced he was fond of Worf than admit the painful truth of his solitude. It had been a warm comfort, his lies. The duplicity behind which he hid to make others believe he was something of an enigma. He liked the reputation. And mindlessly, he was throwing it away for the simple hope that Bashir might understand him and return his affection.

Alas, it never was so simple. Bashir made some sort of noise akin to disgust and pushed Garak away. "Please," he slurred. "I don't like boys!"

At first, Garak found the remark mostly odd. Then it became so suddenly funny, an abrupt cry of laughter was torn from his lips. But at last, he knew the painful toll of those words as understanding became clear. "I'm no boy," he tried again, letting himself fall against Bashir. "Perh'ps that's what y'need, Juli'n; you need a man."

This time, Bashir left the chair, leaving Garak sprawled unceremoniously in it. Instead of facing the implications, Bashir merely began to sing on top of his lungs about how he had a little pony.

Garak stared dejectedly for a moment before darkness overtook him. Oh comforting darkness, he thought. It was so sweet, he never wanted to know anything else. Never face his sweet, young doctor again, not after the painful rejection of tonight. Never face the harsh contours of the station. Never face his painfully small-sized bed in his painfully barren quarters. Never face the solitude again. But fate was fickle, and Garak was harshly woken by sounds of illness. His precious doctor was in the washroom, making awfully alarming noises. He staggered toward the room, his head dazed and confused, his face numb. He wanted to sleep, suddenly. Just crawl into bed and sleep. He kneeled at Julian's side, rubbing the young man's back. "There there, just let it out ..." He stifled laughter at the pun, instead occupying himself in retrieving a wet towel that he promptly pressed against Bashir's neck. The young doctor, meanwhile, was hugging the rim of the lavatory and spilling his entire day's menu. He scarcely acknowledged Garak's presence until he sat back on his haunches and looked up to him. "Yer so good t'me ..." he panted, closing his eyes. "I'm sorry I can't ... I can't ..." He was about to continue when another wave of nausea hit him, and he leaned forward.

Garak began to cry. Crying because he didn't know what to do, not with a sick Human. Crying because he realized he would never have him. Crying because he was being irrational and he loathed it. With a squeeze to Bashir's neck, Garak abandoned the ill doctor, and tottered toward Bashir's bedroom. There he would find a bed. Covers. Comfort. If he was lucky, he wouldn't wake up tomorrow morning. He only prayed that if he did, he'd be lucid enough to leave before Bashir himself woke up. He slipped into the covers, and buried his face into the pillow, sobbing without pause, hating himself for it.

Half an hour later, Bashir joined him, though the tailor was already too far in sleep to notice. His eyes closed and still dazed from his spell of illness and the alcohol embedded in his system, Julian rolled into bed and cuddled against the warm body beside him. How did that happen? How did he suddenly become not so lonely? He didn't really care, he was happy. He pressed his cheek against Garak's back, and fell asleep, knowing the comfort of being with someone after long nights of solitude, ignorant of the fact he would wake up tomorrow and with an horrified gasp, find beside him no beautiful woman, but his best friend.

And really ... would it be so bad?

The End