Julian Bashir squirmed his way through the dense moving mass, elbowing a path across the Promenade to look for a reasonable view of the podium. He wasn't sure what he was doing here -- wouldn't have come at all if it hadn't been for a particular friend's invitation. Of all people to convince him in coming, Garak had suggested they attend. And where was the Cardassian anyway? He had given Bashir his approximate location the day before, but could it be the tailor had been billowed to another place? He paused, waiting for the couple in front of him to open a passageway for him, and when he finally got through, Garak's cheerful face greeted him warmly.

"Ah! Doctor. I'm pleased to see you weren't lost amidst the masses," he said gleefully.

Julian muttered under his breath as he pressed close to his friend. "I almost was . . ." he breathed, grimacing as someone pushed him in the back. Crowds were certainly not Bashir's idea of a relaxing afternoon. Why in the world did Garak persuade him to spend his off-duty break trying to get a breath of air while being squeezed by about two hundred bodies? And in these clothes . . . fine, he wasn't restrained by regulation to wear his uniform during breaks, but the loose pants part of the outfit Garak had strongly advised him to wear were practically slipping below his waist. Why had he listened to him anyway? He sighed. Of course, who could refuse the tailor's efforts in trying to fit in?

He again flinched, and turned angrily at the tailor. "Garak, would you mind telling me why we're here?"

"Why Doctor," Garak looked evidently puzzled. "I thought you liked gatherings."

"I like quiet gatherings . . . gatherings where you don't have to punch your way through to get somewhere."

"Ah but I think you'll forgive me this time, Doctor." The sudden gleam in the tailor's eyes seemed to contain mischief. Bashir sighed and nodded carefully.

"So what are we looking at?" he asked, turning toward the empty podium.

"Bajor's monthly Doija Ceremony. Quite popular. First the Bajoran Minister addresses the crowd, relating news of Bajor and generally what accomplishments the Bajora have done in the past month. Then, it's usually followed by music and dance."

"Marvelous," Julian replied, nor particularly impressed.

"Hush Doctor, it's about to begin."

Hooray, Julian thought bitterly. While I could be curled up in a chair with a nice warm glass of raktegino, I'm here listening to an endless list of deeds while fighting for my own survival. He flinched and glared at the surrounding people, but they were already too engrossed on the podium to notice his resentment.

The Minister took his place.

Bashir sighed and forced himself to listen. 'I'm here for Garak's sake' was his mantra, yet it somehow gave him little solace.

The lecture was well into its half-hour when Julian began looking around, fascinated by the people's apparent enthusiasm for this Doija Ceremony.

As he did so, he suddenly paused. He felt something brushing against his backside. For a moment Julian dismissed it as a fleeting touch, but when the hand lingered and began caressing him in an unmistakably erotic fashion, Bashir moved to uncover the originator. Yet another hand held his arm and a soft voice swept warm breaths across his ear. "Don't move," it whispered.

He started to protest, having recognized the distinct timbre of his friend's tone, but the words faded into a soft moan as the hand slipped inside his trousers. He promptly clasped a hand across his lips, glancing nervously around to see if people had caught his momentary lapse. But everyone seemed enthralled in the Ceremony. "Garak . . ." he whispered harshly. "Don't . . ."

The cool hand snaked a path inside his pants, and found the hardening erection. Another moan. Julian darted his attention. No one had noticed. Oh yes . . . now the hand -- warmed by his body's own heat -- began tickling his sex, brushing a feather light touch on the smooth sides. He squirmed toward the caress, and found himself clasped against the tailor's body. His hand was now curling around his shaft and it began administering slow strokes -- not enough stimulation for an immediate release, but enough to elicit an involuntary gasp. His eyes flew open and noted the crowd's attention. Good, still focused on the Ceremony.

Hands clapping. There was applause and Julian took the opportunity to raise his voice. Garak smiled against his neck. The caresses became urgent, now stroking his member with firmness and pausing only to rub the head with teasing slowness. How he wished the tailor would just tear his pants off and slip that delightful mouth of his over his sex right now, darting his tongue across the -- oh yes, right there. Julian closed his eyes. He was close, and Garak knew it for the hand slowed its progression. "Garak . . ." he almost whined. No fair, you tease. Get on with it, get . . .oh yes go on -- just ... Julian moaned again, but this time didn't open his eyes to verify his surroundings. He was lost in the tailor's touch, his closeness, the breaths which tickled his ear and neck. The hand doubled its speed. Oh yes, don't stop . . . sweet release . . . right there --

"YES!!!" he cried aloud with his climax. The hand quickly retracted. His eyes flew open and people paused to look in his direction. He turned to the podium and grinned. "YES, what a fine Ceremony! Carry on!" he waved. He swiveled to the tailor and grasped his hand. "Come on," he whispered. "I've had enough of crowds. Let's go to my quarters."

The End