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Garak had lured Julian into a false sense of security by talking about onions.
Julian had invited Garak over to his quarters for a private literary discussion over dinner, which had turned into sex the last two times and he hoped would do again. This time, Julian had chosen an assorted collection of Pablo Neruda’s poetry, which included poems on everyday objects, romantic passion, and labor rights. Garak had started with Neruda’s ode to the onion. (“It reminds me of Cardassian poetry dedicated to the contributions of the Service class.”
“You have poetry dedicated to your service caste?”
“My dear doctor, are you really so dedicated to your view of Cardassia as brutish that you think we only honor our politicians and generals? That is a bias in Human literature, not Cardassian.”)
But now? Now Garak was reading aloud Poem 12.
“The dancing summer storm sweeps a skirt of rain
over the doors and windows.
Indoors, in my rough and savage body,
rages the season of drought.
Season of wildfires, howling and clawing at my every gate.
Oh my beloved, the storm clouds have shattered open
Raining shards of gray light as a garland for your brow.
Open the royal roads of your thighs.
Draw up the bright floods from your open and fragrant well.
The river springs forth from your pubis
and braids with the waters of my deep grotto–”
At Julian’s choking noise, Garak paused, raised his eye ridges and said, “My dear doctor, there’s no reason to look so appalled. The poem is about one of your human genders, is it not?”
(Why, why, why couldn’t Garak have chosen one of the labor rights poems to read aloud? Julian had really been looking forward to a row over labor rights to rile Garak up for the bedroom.)
“Erm. Yes, this is almost certainly an erotic description of an alpha woman.” Julian made abortive half-gestures as he tried to talk with his hands as usual, only for his hands to get too shy to finish the thought. He was a doctor, for God’s sake, not to mention he and Garak had had sex twice. Why couldn’t he keep it together over Garak reading a sexy poem?
“Hmm. How very interesting,” Garak began in his most provoking tone. “Is it disappointing for humans that other species don’t have the six genders you do? Do you ever wish we had…” Garak’s eyes dipped to scan the page before him. “An ‘open and fragrant well’? Or perhaps a ‘heated stone at the foot of the volcano, breathing’?”
Julian’s face colored. “Neruda was an omega man. I’m a beta.” He’d made damn sure of that, when it came to the point in his medical transition for him to decide what sort of man he wanted to be. One of the services Adigeon Prime had offered parents was the option to decide on their child’s presentation; his parents had chosen alpha. When he’d abandoned as much as he could of the Jules they’d intended him to be to become Julian, he’d shed their choice of presentation in favor of one with less unruly physiology. “Alphas and omegas can be rather… erotically fixated on their counterparts, at the expense of other appreciations. Betas are more catholic in our tastes.” Julian fitted the logic together in his mind and had an insight: could Garak be teasing him to cover a genuine insecurity? He couldn’t be sure, but it did no harm to reassure. He drew his eyes slowly down Garak’s body, then back up. “So you needn’t worry that you might be lacking anything I require.”
“Patience, doctor,” Garak said, smiling slowly. “I haven’t yet taken the time to discover which other poems in this collection might inspire you to turn such fetching colors.” He flipped the page. “Let’s try Poem 19, shall we?”