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seikilosTitle: An Evening With Schoenberg
Fandom: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: AU/romance/humour
Rating & Warnings: PG (kissing, language, slight internalised homophobia)
Words: 5867
Disclaimer: I don't own Star Trek: Deep Space Nine.
Summary: Garak invites Julian to a concert of music by the "dangerous" Arnold Schoenberg. Julian has no idea what to expect, but he's about to find out.
Author's Notes: Another of my installments in the DS9 pizza shop AU, Deep Dish Nine. This one is significantly more serious in tone than my previous outing. I was inspired by the fics and discussions of tinsnip and Lady Yate-Xel into trying my hand at Julian and Garak's relationship in this 'verse, though I more or less went off in my own direction to a degree. So, for example, I ended up loosely basing Cardassian dating on turn-of-the-previous-century courting to give it some of that different flavour that's present in DS9, rather than stealing any thunder.
Jane Bond is the idea of humon, whose take I love rather a lot.
Dedicated to tinsnip, who not only is a fantastic beta (posting this ahead of schedule is my very small way of thanking her for all her help), but a lovely person and friend. The DS9 fandom is lucky as hell to have you. ♥
There was no question that Julian's relationship with Garak was the most different of his life. It wasn't just that Garak was a man—though, certainly, discovering an attraction to the same sex when you were in your late twenties took a great deal of adjustment. It wasn't that Garak was well over a decade older than him, even if that also contributed. And it wasn't even that this was the slowest-progressing relationship he'd ever had, with their dates in the double digits, and a long friendship before that, and no sex yet (though they'd come close a time or two).
It was at least partially that he never had any idea what to expect when it came to the setting of their dates. An evening out could mean a bite to eat at Janeway's and endless, fascinating conversation. It could also mean experimental theatre or sitting in on a political debate, depending on not much more than Garak's whim, at least as far as he could initially tell (though he usually managed to deduce Garak's motives for bringing him to these places by the end of the evening). About the only place he could say with some sort of confidence that Garak wouldn't take him would be to a monster truck rally, and even then he wasn't so sure.
At first he'd tried to keep up, to expand his repertoire from, say, the movies or that club that managed to be affordable without being too much of a dive, but then Jadzia had talked some sense into him. Garak was dating him because he liked his company, she'd pointed out in that wonderfully soothing voice of hers, not because he was looking to be impressed by the obscure places Julian took him. It had taken him a bit to calm down, but everyone had been obviously much happier when he had—up to and including his fellow employees at Deep Dish Nine.
In that spirit, his suggestion to Garak that evening had been nothing more complex than a walk through the nearby suburbs. The scenery wasn't the sort to inspire poetry, but that wasn't what they were there for.
He had a perfectly lovely time as they rambled while they rambled, and it seemed the same was true of Garak. By now, Julian was even nearly used to Garak's habit of taking his arm when they went any distance. That was different, too, but—he liked it. The pressure of Garak's hand at the crook of his elbow inspired a wash of feelings from him, and while he hadn't sorted through them all, the one that always floated to the top . . . was, well, happiness.
It was a true disappointment when their building came into view. When they reached the front entrance, he pulled ahead to open the door and knew the exact second Garak's hand left his elbow.
"Would you like to come in for a warm drink?" Garak invited him. "It was somewhat more brisk outside than I had been expecting—and I dressed for the weather."
Julian smiled a bit at the tease (their always differing ideas on what consisted of a proper temperature and the way to dress for it had become one of many inside jokes), but most of his attention was on the second invitation, hidden behind the first. Anticipation lit him and memory fuelled it—but then reality insisted on forcing its way in and turning out the lights.
"I'd love to, but I've an assignment due the day after tomorrow." He sighed and his lips pressed together for a moment. "If I don't work on it tonight, it'll be an all-nighter tomorrow evening for certain."
"In that case, I hope I haven't caused any loss of sleep with my company," Garak said, and though his tone was solicitous, that small smile of his touched his lips.
Not in the way I want you to, he didn't yet dare say. Instead, he answered, "No, if I hadn't taken a break when I did, I probably would have set fire to the damned thing."
"Then I'm glad to have been of service." Garak's smile broadened and changed in tenor. "If you hadn't been able to contain the flames, the whole building might have gone up, and that would have been a shame."
Once again, Julian heard both meanings in Garak's words but chose only to engage with the first layer. Garak was in a good enough mood that his dislike of his living quarters seemed to have been expressed out of nothing more than habit.
(If he stopped to think, he might have been startled to realize how adept he'd become at holding two conversations at once—but that was something to be mulled over on his own.)
"And I doubt my grades would recover," was all he added, dryly.
"Well then," Garak began in that rehearsed casual tone that signaled many of his suggestions, "perhaps you'd be willing to accompany me to a concert later this week—once either your assignment is handed in or is a pile of ash on the floor of your apartment."
Julian's first response, from his days of dating ordinary mortals, was an immediate if muddled, "Of course. I'd love to—no, wait, I have a—no, yes, the lab's been cancelled. No, there's—wait, yes, it's all right. Yes, I'd love to."
His second response, which had been developed since a certain highly unpredictable man had come into his life, was a far more cautious, ". . . What kind of concert is it?"
Though there was just the slightest crinkle about Garak's eyes, his smile was as mild as a spring day, and that's when Julian realized he had got himself into trouble. In his experience, that kind of look meant someone was in for it, and in this case, that someone was him.
"It's called 'An Evening With Schoenberg,'" Garak replied. "The university music department is putting it on this Thursday."
. . . Well, that didn't sound too bad. Which, of course, was just what Garak wanted him to think.
"I can't say I've ever heard of Schoenberg," he said with his own brand of false casualness. "What kind of music did he write—does he write?" Was he some sort of local composer?
This time, Garak didn't bother to hide his amusement. "My dear, it would take away the anticipation of the evening were I to tell you."
"Not really," came out of his mouth before he had time to think and now Garak was looking at him with his head cocked to the side, and oh god, he was committed now, wasn't he? "I'd still be looking forward to, um. Spending time with you."
That was the kind of suave assuredness fifteen-year-olds dreamed of. The building could fall on his head anytime now.
. . . But there. Just for a breath, Garak had looked surprised, and in a way he shouldn't be. His expression dropped back into its usual pleasantness, but as it did, Julian found himself wondering: just what kind of signals was he sending, anyway?
Maybe he shouldn't be holding two conversations at once. Maybe it should really be three.
"Be that as it may," Garak said, interrupting him before he could think the moment through any further, "I hope you won't go looking up any of Schoenberg's music in advance of the concert. That would spoil the surprise, and then I would be cross."
"You're speaking as if I'm going to have time for anything but biology between now and Thursday," he answered lightly, but to make up for his earlier lack of enthusiasm about the concert, he took both of Garak's hands in his.
They were gloved, of course, the leather as cool under his hands as Garak's skin always was. He glanced up as their fingers slipped together and caught a rare, softer expression touching Garak's face. He'd never thought much of holding hands in his other relationships, but with Garak, it seemed so much more intimate. It could have something to do with the drawn-out pace of their relationship; all he knew was it did things to his heart that by rights should have been reserved for long and slow kisses.
And thinking of kisses. . . .
Julian ducked his head slightly. The chill of Garak's lips against his was expected and so pleasant. With their hands still joined, his awareness of each brush, each separation and immediate return of their mouths, was all the greater for his restrained touch.
Garak was the one to bring their kisses to a close, and a sigh left Julian before he could bring himself to open his eyes. A beat later and he registered the sounds of other tenants going up the stairs. They must have passed by without him noticing, and his indifference to that fact was yet another surprise for the evening.
"Now I really have taken too much of your time," Garak murmured. "Good night, Julian. I'll see you Thursday."
Damn his assignment.
Julian pulled his fingers away, oversensitive to the skin-against-leather slide. "See you then." He smiled. Not even imminent deadlines could stop him from giving Garak that much. "Good night."
One last shared look and off they went: Julian up the stairs to confront deadlines and Garak down to solitude.
*
Julian's focus over the next three days was extremely limited. When he wasn't thinking about his assignment, he was thinking about his work at Deep Dish Nine. And when he wasn't thinking about his work, it was that concert with Garak.
It had been relatively easy to keep his curiosity in check when he was pulling a near all-nighter finishing his classwork (but not a complete all-nighter, and that he counted as a victory). He simply didn't have the brainspace to devote to anything non-biological. After he handed in the assignment, however, he had a problem. Garak's explicit instructions to not look up Schoenberg had of course had the effect of making obeying him nigh impossible—just as he'd intended, he didn't doubt for a minute.
He was dating a sadist, he reflected as, for the twentieth time, he closed the search engine tab without entering anything.
Going in to work helped, but only to a degree. In between taking orders, he caught himself playing with his phone, flipping it from hand to hand over and over again. When his break came around with no sight of Garak—he was probably staying away to increase the torment—Julian gave up . . . slightly.
"Garak's taking me out to a concert tonight," he commented to Worf and hoped he didn't sound half as stilted as he guessed he did. "The university music department is putting it on. It's, um, apparently called 'An Evening With Schoenberg.'"
It didn't count as cheating if Worf just happened to tell him what kind of music it was, did it? Worf seemed to know everything worthwhile about obscure types of music—opera was only the beginning (and probably end, if you asked Worf). If anyone could put him out of his misery, aside from Garak, it would be him.
His assumption seemed to be right, as Worf's eyes widened slightly. "He is taking you to a concert of Schoenberg?"
"Yes, um, that's right."
Oh god, what was Garak getting him into to make Worf react like that? Was it too late to suggest another Jane Bond evening at his place?
"Hmm." Now Worf was studying him. Julian tried not to squirm, because Worf had an intense stare that gave even Garak a run for his money. "If he enjoys Schoenberg, then he is a dangerous man. You would do well to be cautious."
Strangely enough, that almost sounded like a compliment the way Worf said it. And was that a bit of . . . approval? For the first time ever?
That was an improvement, and a welcome one at that, but—he frowned. "What part of that makes him dangerous? Why should I be cautious?"
It was just music . . . wasn't it?
Worf looked at him. "It is Schoenberg."
". . . Right. Yes, of course." He turned to where Kira had stopped in the doorway of the kitchen, looking even less impressed than usual. It was a long shot, but: "I don't suppose you know why listening to Schoenberg is so dangerous, do you?"
"I don't. But I do know you're five minutes late coming off break." The crack of her gum didn't echo throughout the kitchen, but it may as well have.
"Oh, damn, really?" Julian thrust his phone back into his pocket—when had he even taken it out? —and started scurrying around in search of his cap. How he kept losing it was beyond—
"Looking for this?" Kira held out her hand, and from her fingertips dangled . . . sigh.
"Yes, thank you." He snagged it, grateful that she looked at least sort of amused, and hurried back to the cash.
*
Julian thought he did very well, all things considered. He lasted the entire drive over to the university in Garak's old but impeccably maintained car without the name "Schoenberg" ever crossing his lips. He even managed to ignore the little sideways looks Garak kept slipping him, the ones that suggested he give in and indulge himself, until they had parked and Julian was sticking his permit in the window. (It might have been a bit more convenient not to have to retrieve the bit of cardboard out of his own vehicle, but at least when Garak drove there was a 99.9% chance the car would hold together long enough to get them where they were going. With Julian's car, it was more like 45%.)
As he closed the car door, his shoulders hunched in preparation for being frozen stiff. The campus had been built on the opposite edge of town, which meant there was plenty of space for the wind to sweep between the buildings—and that was exactly what it was doing. Knowing full well numb hands were imminent, Julian stuck them in his jacket pockets before extending his elbow for Garak to take.
"I must say, my dear," Garak commented, his hand settling into place, "you're being remarkably patient about this little mystery I gave you."
"Oh, well." Julian shrugged. Behind him, he heard the crunch of Garak's car locking remotely; only then did he start to walk. "As you said, it would ruin the anticipation if I tried to find out what we're going to beforehand."
"Of course." A beat, and then Garak's voice turned sly. "And you didn't try to cheat at all? Not even once?"
Rather than lie outright, Julian fell back on the timeless classic of answering a question with a question: "Now what kind of a man do you take me for?"
Garak's visible amusement ratcheted up three or four notches at least. Damn. "A most curious one, of course."
Automatically, he spent a second or two trying to work out which meaning of "curious" Garak had intended—unless he meant both—before deciding he didn't want to know. (His instinctive assumption of wordplay in the simplest of statements was driving Miles up the wall, but once that neglected part of his brain had been switched on, well, it didn't want to switch off again.)
"I can promise you, Elim," he said instead, "that I have no better idea of the kind of music Schoenberg writes now than I did three days ago." Except that it's apparently dangerous in a way that Worf approves of, he mentally added, but maybe he wouldn't be sharing that.
Garak's smile turned genuine: right answer. "Then you're in for a rare treat."
And right then and there, Julian decided that anything that made Garak look like that was worth the supposed "danger." As wrung out as he was from the last few frantic days, both agreeing to come and (mostly) resisting his curiosity had been the right decisions.
When they blew into the tiny recital hall attached to the music department, it was to find a folding table with a cashbox on top of it and what was clearly a first-year student behind it. Julian smiled at her in sympathy. He could remember all too well his days of being pushed into the dirty work—but it was with a jolt that he realized a moment later how distant those days seemed. Feeling his age with Garak by his side was more than slightly silly, but there he was.
. . . It was also with a small measure of awkwardness that he noticed the first-year brighten and smooth down her straight black hair. Um . . . oh.
"Hi! Welcome to 'An Evening With Schoenberg'!" she chirped at both of them, even if her attention was on him alone. "Tickets are fifteen dollars, or ten dollars for students."
This last bit of information was accompanied by a hopeful look: he was student-age, wasn't he? For his part, Julian couldn't decide if he'd least like to look at her or his no doubt incredibly amused significant other, and so instead he opted for glancing down at his pocket as he reached for his wallet.
"Not this time. It's my turn tonight," he heard Garak say, as expected. Making the motion to pay was simply one of those things you did. Or, at least, he did. Maybe someday he'd stop feeling the need, but not this evening (especially when he needed something to do with his hands).
Garak pulled twenty-five dollars from his wallet and handed it to the first-year, whose smile was still present, though fading—and now he felt even more awkward, given how game she was being. As Garak replaced his wallet in the pocket of his long coat, Julian could just see the words "married or gay" printed behind her eyes, and that was more awkward yet.
It wasn't that he had a problem with people thinking he was gay—it wasn't an insult—but . . . it wasn't who he was. He had enough of people making assumptions about him for other reasons and then treating him accordingly, more than enough. Even his friends did it sometimes. But he'd only just got comfortable with thinking of his sexuality as "straight plus Garak." He was still trying on "bisexual" and seeing how he wore it (at first it had itched—but he thought he might stop noticing after a time).
It was black-and-white thinking, that kind of assumption. That was something he'd never had a taste for, and his relationship with Garak had made him like it even less. And it—
"Programme?"
Julian blinked at the folded sheets of paper before him. "Sorry?"
Garak smiled and waited for Julian's fingers to close around what he was offering. "They were sitting on the table. You seemed a little preoccupied, so I took two."
"Oh—sorry, thanks." He flushed. And now he was making a fool of himself.
"Not at all. Now, where would you like to sit?" Garak surveyed the hall. "It seems we'll have our choice of seats."
Julian took a look around, and that was no exaggeration. The audience was sparse, to say the least, roughly split between young adults in their late teens and early twenties—students, no doubt with their grades on the line—and much older adults. The backs of those heads were almost universally grey or balding. It was odd to think about, but if either of them were to receive strange looks for attending the concert, it would be Garak. He was too old to be a student, but was also decidedly too young to be a senior. (And thank god for that.)
"What about over there?" He gestured at some seats near the middle-front, to the left. It wasn't prime viewing, but then seeing things wasn't the point, was it? . . . Was it? What kind of concert was this?
"A fine selection," Garak agreed.
Before his partner could move, Julian made sure to be the one to set his hand at Garak's back. The gesture was stiff and he felt ashamed of himself for it, but the first-year's assumption earlier had set him on edge.
He knew Garak was looking at him with one of his sideways glances, but he accepted being guided and said nothing. That consideration inspired in him both gratitude and a deeper sense of shame, and he was glad of the distraction provided by settling himself in his seat and opening his programme.
It turned out to be more of a distraction than he had expected. On some sort of subconscious level, he had thought the programme had been a bit heavy, but now that he was looking at it—was this sheet music for the entire concert?
He glanced up at the grand piano that was centre stage, then back down at the music, and his confusion only grew. Schoenberg was a pianist, then? But then why hadn't he heard of him?
"I do hope you can read music," Garak commented as he smoothed out his own programme. "It's not necessary to enjoy the concert, but it does add an extra dimension, I find."
"Yes, I took piano lessons when I was younger, the same as everyone."
For all he spoke with only his bemusement at the entire evening shading his voice, it wasn't the truth. He hadn't taken them the same as everyone else. His father had pushed and pushed him to be not good, not great, but simply the best, just as he had with every other extracurricular activity he'd piled onto him, and just as he had with his studies. His piano teacher, Ms. Zhou, had been kind, had tried to make their lessons enjoyable for him. She'd even tried to shield him from the pressures of his father's expectations in what few ways she could. But in the end, the moment he'd been accepted into university at sixteen, he couldn't drop those lessons fast enough.
"Did you?" Garak's interested voice interrupted his thoughts. "What a pity there's no room for a keyboard in my apartment. I'd enjoy hearing you play—provided you were willing, of course."
He shook his head. "I wouldn't be much to listen to. I haven't played in years." Not one note since his final lesson.
The echoing click of footsteps onstage brought their attention forward, and now he was all too ready to be drawn into the mystery Garak had given him.
"Good evening and welcome to the music department's presentation of 'An Evening With Schoenberg,'" announced an attractive young woman (a senior?) with a truly incredible amount of blond hair.
She went on to give the usual sort of speech about cellphones being turned off and so forth, then segued into an extremely brief history of the composer (who had died sometime ago and was apparently not local—two possibilities crossed out).
"Arnold Schoenberg was the first to make use of twelve-tone serialism, which most students here have studied in theory class," she added with a smile. It only grew when a batch of students near the back groaned. "Those of you in Dr. Green's courses are expected to analyse the music performed tonight with the help of the scores provided and turn them in by Monday. Everyone else in the audience is invited to use the music to follow along if they'd like or to feel free to simply listen." Her smile returned. "All we ask is you drop your music in the recycling bin at the door so we don't get in trouble with the copyright police."
As the student finished welcoming them, Julian let his attention drop to his score and tried to work out how the first piece would sound. His frown returned as he tried and failed to locate even the melody line. Where was it?
He could sense Garak was doing that thing of his beside him, the one where he was smiling a perfectly benign smile but was actually laughing at you. He looked over, and—yes, there it was.
"You've really outdone yourself tonight," Julian informed him. For just a moment Garak's smile warmed, and oh, that was another reminder of why he was doing this.
"I'm delighted you think so." The moment ended and there he was, back to laughing at him. "I believe you're only more likely to think this way once the music actually starts."
"When—" he began, but then he was interrupted by the rest of the audience clapping and he looked back to the stage to see a rangy young man approaching the piano. Oh. Now.
He glanced down at the title of the first piece—Klavierstück, Op. 33a and 33b, apparently—then leaned back in his seat. He'd take a listen to this first pair of pieces without the music, he decided. Maybe later he'd follow along, but he'd done quite enough studying for one week, as far as he was concerned.
His resolution lasted as long as the opening four bars. Then he was fumbling for his music in renewed bewilderment.
The first few chords had been—different, yes, but not unpleasant. But then, after that. . . . Had the pianist lost his place? Forgotten what came next? He didn't look flustered and no one else in the audience seemed concerned on his behalf, so that couldn't be it.
He stared down at his music. Was this honestly how the piece was supposed to sound?
Beside him, against his arm, he could feel Garak shake just a bit with suppressed laughter. So, this was why he told him not to look up Schoenberg: he wanted to see Julian's reaction to being presented with . . . whatever this was. He wasn't sure whether to admire what was the musical equivalent of a practical joke or do some shaking of his partner himself, because really, after a week of frantic assignment-writing, this was what Garak took him to so he could relax?
The—music came to a stop, there was a pause, and then the pianist began playing again (Opus 33b, he assumed). While he'd hoped that this might be a little more melodious than the first part, said hopes vanished very soon into the piece.
When the pianist stood at the end, it was only politeness that had Julian applauding with the rest of the audience. His feelings about the evening had come down heavily on the side of annoyance, and he didn't bother to hide it as he leaned over to mutter to Garak, "Very funny. I hope you have other plans for after this."
Garak's surprise as he looked back at him simply couldn't have been genuine. "Don't you like it?"
"Like it?" His frustration was now well and truly on the rise. "Garak, it's a mess! It sounds as though it were written by someone playing darts with sheet music! Why would I like it?"
"Because it's puzzle music," Garak answered over the applause of the audience as four string players walked onstage and began setting up.
Just like that, Julian's momentum was cut, his unhappiness put on hold. ". . . Puzzle music?"
"Yes, that's right." Garak leaned forward, his hands coming up to gesture, and this wasn't a joke to him, was it? Not completely, anyway, because Garak never had only one motive for doing anything. "Twelve tone serialism is a technique for using all the notes in our tuning system in a row without repeating any of them. The pattern can be reversed or inverted, but it's always present. The challenge" —he smiled— "is finding it."
Julian caught an older couple giving them the kind of look people used when they were too polite to glare and lowered his voice even further. "And that pattern was in the first two pieces we heard?"
"Mm. It should be in most of them." Garak pointed to Julian's programme, his arm crossing into his space. "The ones marked with an asterisk are for the students to study—and for us as well."
"What should I—" Julian began, but once again, he was cut off.
This time, it was by the violinist sitting on the inside of the ring of string players onstage. She threw herself into a harried, jittery sort of melody that was bounced almost right away to the viola player. Julian jerked his score out from beneath his programme and jumped into the challenge of analysing a half-explained concept in a completely unfamiliar musical style while simultaneously attempting to resurrect his atrophied music-reading skills, in real time.
By the end of the movement, he felt as though he'd accidentally run a marathon. Garak, by contrast, looked as sedate as a Sunday stroller. He calmly turned each page with a sort of delicacy, and his posture was impeccable. He certainly didn't rattle about—more non-glares—and hunch over his music like . . . like a dog guarding a bone. Then again, if Garak was capable of not being elegant, Julian had yet to see it.
As the musicians left the stage, Garak leaned over to murmur, "Are you finding the pattern?"
Julian shuffled his sheets around, brow furrowed. "I think so. I wish they'd play it again, though."
"You could go ask them," he suggested. "I'm sure you'd be very popular with the music students."
"Yes, and very unpopular with everyone else," he said right back.
He took a moment to check his programme. Oh, thank god, no star next to this one. He needed a piece to breathe.
. . . And so did the vocalist performing the next piece, apparently. She seemed to be spending her time halfway between speaking and singing, and while the effect was interesting enough—eerie, even—it left him short of breath in sympathy.
Aside from that, this one didn't seem as jarring as the others. Whether that was because his ear and his expectations had adjusted to the alien sounds of the music or it was actually a little more "normal," he couldn't say. Regardless . . . it wasn't bad. He wasn't wishing for the end of the concert anymore, even in spite of no longer having the analysis to keep his mind busy.
He wasn't hoping it was a long concert, though.
*
"Thank you for bringing me to this, Elim," he said once they were free of the bustle of departing concert attendees. Many of them had greeted the end of the concert as the start of gossip time—they all seemed to know each other—but enough people had left with him and Garak to make getting out of the hall a hassle.
He paused, and then he found he was able to say honestly: "I'm glad we came."
It hadn't been the relaxing evening he had been looking for, but the concert had been so different from his studies that, in the end, he'd actually enjoyed it. What a change that made from those first few discordant notes he'd . . . experienced.
"Oh, it was my pleasure," Garak replied lightly, but Julian could hear the weight behind his words. "I'm gratified you found it such an interesting challenge."
He laughed. "My courses are going to seem easy after this. I suppose I should be thanking you for that, too."
"If you'd like," Garak said and Julian couldn't help but laugh again, because he sounded so smug. (And when had that become an endearing trait?)
The ride home passed too quickly and was filled with the two of them comparing notes on what they'd heard. Julian was triumphant when he discovered he'd held his own very well, and he basked in both his own pleasure at a new experience well examined and Garak's delight in him.
Back in their building, they once more said their goodbyes at the top of the stairs leading to the basement. This time, Julian didn't register the presence of others even after their last kiss had ended.
*
Julian also didn't register that he had company on his break the next day until the earbuds had been plucked from his ears.
"Wh—"
Jadzia smiled back at him, her expression brimming with mischief. "Whatcha listening to?" she asked as she popped the buds into her ears.
Within seconds, Julian understood firsthand Garak's amusement over exposing him to atonal music without warning. Jadzia ducked her head backwards, but since she was plugged into his phone, the music naturally went with her. "Whoa, what is this?"
"Arnold Schoenberg's Klavierstück, Opus 33b," he informed her with a grin. This was fun.
"Since when do you listen to stuff like that?" She disconnected herself and handed back the earbuds. "For a minute there, I thought I had grabbed Worf's headphones by mistake."
"Garak took me to a concert last night," he explained, his smile reflexively warming. He slung the headphones around his neck and hit pause. "It's surprising how much Schoenberg grows on you."
Jadzia gave him a bit of a funny look. "If you say so."
"And anyway, I don't think Worf would listen to this kind of music," he went on. "He said it was 'dangerous.'"
The bit of a funny look turned into a lot of a funny look. "Because it gives people headaches?"
"I don't know, actually. He didn't say."
"Let's find out." Jadzia leaned around the corner into the kitchen. "Hey Worf? Worf!"
Parting Worf from his beloved headphones, as always, took a great deal of work (and bravery). Luckily, he was able to leave the job to Jadzia; Worf always seem to react to her a little better than to everyone else.
Once Jadzia had his full attention, she said, "Julian tells me you said this guy Schoenberg's music is dangerous."
"That is correct," Worf answered with apparently perfect seriousness.
"You wouldn't happen to mind explaining that, would you?" she asked.
"It is music that follows its own rules. It has little in common with the musics most people here are used to. To enjoy Schoenberg, one must always be thinking, adapting to its ways. But the moment one does" —he scowled— "it shifts into something different. Something new. It is treacherous music. That," he concluded as he folded his arms, "is why it is dangerous."
Jadzia turned to him at the end of Worf's speech, which was enough to tip his wide grin into full-out laughter.
"Thank you, Worf," he said when he could. "I understand much better now."
"Good." Already, Worf was reaching for his headphones. "It takes much courage to listen to Schoenberg. It is not music to be taken lightly."
"No," he agreed, "but I think it's very rewarding—hey!"
It was amazing how innocent Jadzia could look for someone who had just finished half-shoving him into the counter. "Better get back to work, loverboy, before Nerys starts snapping her gum at you."
"'Loverboy'?" he repeated indignantly. Who even used that word these days? Besides Trills, apparently—that must have been Curzon talking.
Jadzia only laughed and left him to get back to work. All through the remainder of his shift and for the rest of the day, Julian repeatedly became aware of his phone in his pocket—and the little piece of Garak it held in the shape of some truly odd but increasingly well-liked bits of music.
For anyone who wants to experience what Julian and Garak did, here are links to the pieces I referenced over the course of the fic:
Klavierstück, Op. 33a and 33b
String Quartet no. 3, op. 30, I. Moderato
Pierrot Lunaire, Op. 21 (excerpts)
Fandom: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: AU/romance/humour
Rating & Warnings: PG (kissing, language, slight internalised homophobia)
Words: 5867
Disclaimer: I don't own Star Trek: Deep Space Nine.
Summary: Garak invites Julian to a concert of music by the "dangerous" Arnold Schoenberg. Julian has no idea what to expect, but he's about to find out.
Author's Notes: Another of my installments in the DS9 pizza shop AU, Deep Dish Nine. This one is significantly more serious in tone than my previous outing. I was inspired by the fics and discussions of tinsnip and Lady Yate-Xel into trying my hand at Julian and Garak's relationship in this 'verse, though I more or less went off in my own direction to a degree. So, for example, I ended up loosely basing Cardassian dating on turn-of-the-previous-century courting to give it some of that different flavour that's present in DS9, rather than stealing any thunder.
Jane Bond is the idea of humon, whose take I love rather a lot.
Dedicated to tinsnip, who not only is a fantastic beta (posting this ahead of schedule is my very small way of thanking her for all her help), but a lovely person and friend. The DS9 fandom is lucky as hell to have you. ♥
There was no question that Julian's relationship with Garak was the most different of his life. It wasn't just that Garak was a man—though, certainly, discovering an attraction to the same sex when you were in your late twenties took a great deal of adjustment. It wasn't that Garak was well over a decade older than him, even if that also contributed. And it wasn't even that this was the slowest-progressing relationship he'd ever had, with their dates in the double digits, and a long friendship before that, and no sex yet (though they'd come close a time or two).
It was at least partially that he never had any idea what to expect when it came to the setting of their dates. An evening out could mean a bite to eat at Janeway's and endless, fascinating conversation. It could also mean experimental theatre or sitting in on a political debate, depending on not much more than Garak's whim, at least as far as he could initially tell (though he usually managed to deduce Garak's motives for bringing him to these places by the end of the evening). About the only place he could say with some sort of confidence that Garak wouldn't take him would be to a monster truck rally, and even then he wasn't so sure.
At first he'd tried to keep up, to expand his repertoire from, say, the movies or that club that managed to be affordable without being too much of a dive, but then Jadzia had talked some sense into him. Garak was dating him because he liked his company, she'd pointed out in that wonderfully soothing voice of hers, not because he was looking to be impressed by the obscure places Julian took him. It had taken him a bit to calm down, but everyone had been obviously much happier when he had—up to and including his fellow employees at Deep Dish Nine.
In that spirit, his suggestion to Garak that evening had been nothing more complex than a walk through the nearby suburbs. The scenery wasn't the sort to inspire poetry, but that wasn't what they were there for.
He had a perfectly lovely time as they rambled while they rambled, and it seemed the same was true of Garak. By now, Julian was even nearly used to Garak's habit of taking his arm when they went any distance. That was different, too, but—he liked it. The pressure of Garak's hand at the crook of his elbow inspired a wash of feelings from him, and while he hadn't sorted through them all, the one that always floated to the top . . . was, well, happiness.
It was a true disappointment when their building came into view. When they reached the front entrance, he pulled ahead to open the door and knew the exact second Garak's hand left his elbow.
"Would you like to come in for a warm drink?" Garak invited him. "It was somewhat more brisk outside than I had been expecting—and I dressed for the weather."
Julian smiled a bit at the tease (their always differing ideas on what consisted of a proper temperature and the way to dress for it had become one of many inside jokes), but most of his attention was on the second invitation, hidden behind the first. Anticipation lit him and memory fuelled it—but then reality insisted on forcing its way in and turning out the lights.
"I'd love to, but I've an assignment due the day after tomorrow." He sighed and his lips pressed together for a moment. "If I don't work on it tonight, it'll be an all-nighter tomorrow evening for certain."
"In that case, I hope I haven't caused any loss of sleep with my company," Garak said, and though his tone was solicitous, that small smile of his touched his lips.
Not in the way I want you to, he didn't yet dare say. Instead, he answered, "No, if I hadn't taken a break when I did, I probably would have set fire to the damned thing."
"Then I'm glad to have been of service." Garak's smile broadened and changed in tenor. "If you hadn't been able to contain the flames, the whole building might have gone up, and that would have been a shame."
Once again, Julian heard both meanings in Garak's words but chose only to engage with the first layer. Garak was in a good enough mood that his dislike of his living quarters seemed to have been expressed out of nothing more than habit.
(If he stopped to think, he might have been startled to realize how adept he'd become at holding two conversations at once—but that was something to be mulled over on his own.)
"And I doubt my grades would recover," was all he added, dryly.
"Well then," Garak began in that rehearsed casual tone that signaled many of his suggestions, "perhaps you'd be willing to accompany me to a concert later this week—once either your assignment is handed in or is a pile of ash on the floor of your apartment."
Julian's first response, from his days of dating ordinary mortals, was an immediate if muddled, "Of course. I'd love to—no, wait, I have a—no, yes, the lab's been cancelled. No, there's—wait, yes, it's all right. Yes, I'd love to."
His second response, which had been developed since a certain highly unpredictable man had come into his life, was a far more cautious, ". . . What kind of concert is it?"
Though there was just the slightest crinkle about Garak's eyes, his smile was as mild as a spring day, and that's when Julian realized he had got himself into trouble. In his experience, that kind of look meant someone was in for it, and in this case, that someone was him.
"It's called 'An Evening With Schoenberg,'" Garak replied. "The university music department is putting it on this Thursday."
. . . Well, that didn't sound too bad. Which, of course, was just what Garak wanted him to think.
"I can't say I've ever heard of Schoenberg," he said with his own brand of false casualness. "What kind of music did he write—does he write?" Was he some sort of local composer?
This time, Garak didn't bother to hide his amusement. "My dear, it would take away the anticipation of the evening were I to tell you."
"Not really," came out of his mouth before he had time to think and now Garak was looking at him with his head cocked to the side, and oh god, he was committed now, wasn't he? "I'd still be looking forward to, um. Spending time with you."
That was the kind of suave assuredness fifteen-year-olds dreamed of. The building could fall on his head anytime now.
. . . But there. Just for a breath, Garak had looked surprised, and in a way he shouldn't be. His expression dropped back into its usual pleasantness, but as it did, Julian found himself wondering: just what kind of signals was he sending, anyway?
Maybe he shouldn't be holding two conversations at once. Maybe it should really be three.
"Be that as it may," Garak said, interrupting him before he could think the moment through any further, "I hope you won't go looking up any of Schoenberg's music in advance of the concert. That would spoil the surprise, and then I would be cross."
"You're speaking as if I'm going to have time for anything but biology between now and Thursday," he answered lightly, but to make up for his earlier lack of enthusiasm about the concert, he took both of Garak's hands in his.
They were gloved, of course, the leather as cool under his hands as Garak's skin always was. He glanced up as their fingers slipped together and caught a rare, softer expression touching Garak's face. He'd never thought much of holding hands in his other relationships, but with Garak, it seemed so much more intimate. It could have something to do with the drawn-out pace of their relationship; all he knew was it did things to his heart that by rights should have been reserved for long and slow kisses.
And thinking of kisses. . . .
Julian ducked his head slightly. The chill of Garak's lips against his was expected and so pleasant. With their hands still joined, his awareness of each brush, each separation and immediate return of their mouths, was all the greater for his restrained touch.
Garak was the one to bring their kisses to a close, and a sigh left Julian before he could bring himself to open his eyes. A beat later and he registered the sounds of other tenants going up the stairs. They must have passed by without him noticing, and his indifference to that fact was yet another surprise for the evening.
"Now I really have taken too much of your time," Garak murmured. "Good night, Julian. I'll see you Thursday."
Damn his assignment.
Julian pulled his fingers away, oversensitive to the skin-against-leather slide. "See you then." He smiled. Not even imminent deadlines could stop him from giving Garak that much. "Good night."
One last shared look and off they went: Julian up the stairs to confront deadlines and Garak down to solitude.
Julian's focus over the next three days was extremely limited. When he wasn't thinking about his assignment, he was thinking about his work at Deep Dish Nine. And when he wasn't thinking about his work, it was that concert with Garak.
It had been relatively easy to keep his curiosity in check when he was pulling a near all-nighter finishing his classwork (but not a complete all-nighter, and that he counted as a victory). He simply didn't have the brainspace to devote to anything non-biological. After he handed in the assignment, however, he had a problem. Garak's explicit instructions to not look up Schoenberg had of course had the effect of making obeying him nigh impossible—just as he'd intended, he didn't doubt for a minute.
He was dating a sadist, he reflected as, for the twentieth time, he closed the search engine tab without entering anything.
Going in to work helped, but only to a degree. In between taking orders, he caught himself playing with his phone, flipping it from hand to hand over and over again. When his break came around with no sight of Garak—he was probably staying away to increase the torment—Julian gave up . . . slightly.
"Garak's taking me out to a concert tonight," he commented to Worf and hoped he didn't sound half as stilted as he guessed he did. "The university music department is putting it on. It's, um, apparently called 'An Evening With Schoenberg.'"
It didn't count as cheating if Worf just happened to tell him what kind of music it was, did it? Worf seemed to know everything worthwhile about obscure types of music—opera was only the beginning (and probably end, if you asked Worf). If anyone could put him out of his misery, aside from Garak, it would be him.
His assumption seemed to be right, as Worf's eyes widened slightly. "He is taking you to a concert of Schoenberg?"
"Yes, um, that's right."
Oh god, what was Garak getting him into to make Worf react like that? Was it too late to suggest another Jane Bond evening at his place?
"Hmm." Now Worf was studying him. Julian tried not to squirm, because Worf had an intense stare that gave even Garak a run for his money. "If he enjoys Schoenberg, then he is a dangerous man. You would do well to be cautious."
Strangely enough, that almost sounded like a compliment the way Worf said it. And was that a bit of . . . approval? For the first time ever?
That was an improvement, and a welcome one at that, but—he frowned. "What part of that makes him dangerous? Why should I be cautious?"
It was just music . . . wasn't it?
Worf looked at him. "It is Schoenberg."
". . . Right. Yes, of course." He turned to where Kira had stopped in the doorway of the kitchen, looking even less impressed than usual. It was a long shot, but: "I don't suppose you know why listening to Schoenberg is so dangerous, do you?"
"I don't. But I do know you're five minutes late coming off break." The crack of her gum didn't echo throughout the kitchen, but it may as well have.
"Oh, damn, really?" Julian thrust his phone back into his pocket—when had he even taken it out? —and started scurrying around in search of his cap. How he kept losing it was beyond—
"Looking for this?" Kira held out her hand, and from her fingertips dangled . . . sigh.
"Yes, thank you." He snagged it, grateful that she looked at least sort of amused, and hurried back to the cash.
Julian thought he did very well, all things considered. He lasted the entire drive over to the university in Garak's old but impeccably maintained car without the name "Schoenberg" ever crossing his lips. He even managed to ignore the little sideways looks Garak kept slipping him, the ones that suggested he give in and indulge himself, until they had parked and Julian was sticking his permit in the window. (It might have been a bit more convenient not to have to retrieve the bit of cardboard out of his own vehicle, but at least when Garak drove there was a 99.9% chance the car would hold together long enough to get them where they were going. With Julian's car, it was more like 45%.)
As he closed the car door, his shoulders hunched in preparation for being frozen stiff. The campus had been built on the opposite edge of town, which meant there was plenty of space for the wind to sweep between the buildings—and that was exactly what it was doing. Knowing full well numb hands were imminent, Julian stuck them in his jacket pockets before extending his elbow for Garak to take.
"I must say, my dear," Garak commented, his hand settling into place, "you're being remarkably patient about this little mystery I gave you."
"Oh, well." Julian shrugged. Behind him, he heard the crunch of Garak's car locking remotely; only then did he start to walk. "As you said, it would ruin the anticipation if I tried to find out what we're going to beforehand."
"Of course." A beat, and then Garak's voice turned sly. "And you didn't try to cheat at all? Not even once?"
Rather than lie outright, Julian fell back on the timeless classic of answering a question with a question: "Now what kind of a man do you take me for?"
Garak's visible amusement ratcheted up three or four notches at least. Damn. "A most curious one, of course."
Automatically, he spent a second or two trying to work out which meaning of "curious" Garak had intended—unless he meant both—before deciding he didn't want to know. (His instinctive assumption of wordplay in the simplest of statements was driving Miles up the wall, but once that neglected part of his brain had been switched on, well, it didn't want to switch off again.)
"I can promise you, Elim," he said instead, "that I have no better idea of the kind of music Schoenberg writes now than I did three days ago." Except that it's apparently dangerous in a way that Worf approves of, he mentally added, but maybe he wouldn't be sharing that.
Garak's smile turned genuine: right answer. "Then you're in for a rare treat."
And right then and there, Julian decided that anything that made Garak look like that was worth the supposed "danger." As wrung out as he was from the last few frantic days, both agreeing to come and (mostly) resisting his curiosity had been the right decisions.
When they blew into the tiny recital hall attached to the music department, it was to find a folding table with a cashbox on top of it and what was clearly a first-year student behind it. Julian smiled at her in sympathy. He could remember all too well his days of being pushed into the dirty work—but it was with a jolt that he realized a moment later how distant those days seemed. Feeling his age with Garak by his side was more than slightly silly, but there he was.
. . . It was also with a small measure of awkwardness that he noticed the first-year brighten and smooth down her straight black hair. Um . . . oh.
"Hi! Welcome to 'An Evening With Schoenberg'!" she chirped at both of them, even if her attention was on him alone. "Tickets are fifteen dollars, or ten dollars for students."
This last bit of information was accompanied by a hopeful look: he was student-age, wasn't he? For his part, Julian couldn't decide if he'd least like to look at her or his no doubt incredibly amused significant other, and so instead he opted for glancing down at his pocket as he reached for his wallet.
"Not this time. It's my turn tonight," he heard Garak say, as expected. Making the motion to pay was simply one of those things you did. Or, at least, he did. Maybe someday he'd stop feeling the need, but not this evening (especially when he needed something to do with his hands).
Garak pulled twenty-five dollars from his wallet and handed it to the first-year, whose smile was still present, though fading—and now he felt even more awkward, given how game she was being. As Garak replaced his wallet in the pocket of his long coat, Julian could just see the words "married or gay" printed behind her eyes, and that was more awkward yet.
It wasn't that he had a problem with people thinking he was gay—it wasn't an insult—but . . . it wasn't who he was. He had enough of people making assumptions about him for other reasons and then treating him accordingly, more than enough. Even his friends did it sometimes. But he'd only just got comfortable with thinking of his sexuality as "straight plus Garak." He was still trying on "bisexual" and seeing how he wore it (at first it had itched—but he thought he might stop noticing after a time).
It was black-and-white thinking, that kind of assumption. That was something he'd never had a taste for, and his relationship with Garak had made him like it even less. And it—
"Programme?"
Julian blinked at the folded sheets of paper before him. "Sorry?"
Garak smiled and waited for Julian's fingers to close around what he was offering. "They were sitting on the table. You seemed a little preoccupied, so I took two."
"Oh—sorry, thanks." He flushed. And now he was making a fool of himself.
"Not at all. Now, where would you like to sit?" Garak surveyed the hall. "It seems we'll have our choice of seats."
Julian took a look around, and that was no exaggeration. The audience was sparse, to say the least, roughly split between young adults in their late teens and early twenties—students, no doubt with their grades on the line—and much older adults. The backs of those heads were almost universally grey or balding. It was odd to think about, but if either of them were to receive strange looks for attending the concert, it would be Garak. He was too old to be a student, but was also decidedly too young to be a senior. (And thank god for that.)
"What about over there?" He gestured at some seats near the middle-front, to the left. It wasn't prime viewing, but then seeing things wasn't the point, was it? . . . Was it? What kind of concert was this?
"A fine selection," Garak agreed.
Before his partner could move, Julian made sure to be the one to set his hand at Garak's back. The gesture was stiff and he felt ashamed of himself for it, but the first-year's assumption earlier had set him on edge.
He knew Garak was looking at him with one of his sideways glances, but he accepted being guided and said nothing. That consideration inspired in him both gratitude and a deeper sense of shame, and he was glad of the distraction provided by settling himself in his seat and opening his programme.
It turned out to be more of a distraction than he had expected. On some sort of subconscious level, he had thought the programme had been a bit heavy, but now that he was looking at it—was this sheet music for the entire concert?
He glanced up at the grand piano that was centre stage, then back down at the music, and his confusion only grew. Schoenberg was a pianist, then? But then why hadn't he heard of him?
"I do hope you can read music," Garak commented as he smoothed out his own programme. "It's not necessary to enjoy the concert, but it does add an extra dimension, I find."
"Yes, I took piano lessons when I was younger, the same as everyone."
For all he spoke with only his bemusement at the entire evening shading his voice, it wasn't the truth. He hadn't taken them the same as everyone else. His father had pushed and pushed him to be not good, not great, but simply the best, just as he had with every other extracurricular activity he'd piled onto him, and just as he had with his studies. His piano teacher, Ms. Zhou, had been kind, had tried to make their lessons enjoyable for him. She'd even tried to shield him from the pressures of his father's expectations in what few ways she could. But in the end, the moment he'd been accepted into university at sixteen, he couldn't drop those lessons fast enough.
"Did you?" Garak's interested voice interrupted his thoughts. "What a pity there's no room for a keyboard in my apartment. I'd enjoy hearing you play—provided you were willing, of course."
He shook his head. "I wouldn't be much to listen to. I haven't played in years." Not one note since his final lesson.
The echoing click of footsteps onstage brought their attention forward, and now he was all too ready to be drawn into the mystery Garak had given him.
"Good evening and welcome to the music department's presentation of 'An Evening With Schoenberg,'" announced an attractive young woman (a senior?) with a truly incredible amount of blond hair.
She went on to give the usual sort of speech about cellphones being turned off and so forth, then segued into an extremely brief history of the composer (who had died sometime ago and was apparently not local—two possibilities crossed out).
"Arnold Schoenberg was the first to make use of twelve-tone serialism, which most students here have studied in theory class," she added with a smile. It only grew when a batch of students near the back groaned. "Those of you in Dr. Green's courses are expected to analyse the music performed tonight with the help of the scores provided and turn them in by Monday. Everyone else in the audience is invited to use the music to follow along if they'd like or to feel free to simply listen." Her smile returned. "All we ask is you drop your music in the recycling bin at the door so we don't get in trouble with the copyright police."
As the student finished welcoming them, Julian let his attention drop to his score and tried to work out how the first piece would sound. His frown returned as he tried and failed to locate even the melody line. Where was it?
He could sense Garak was doing that thing of his beside him, the one where he was smiling a perfectly benign smile but was actually laughing at you. He looked over, and—yes, there it was.
"You've really outdone yourself tonight," Julian informed him. For just a moment Garak's smile warmed, and oh, that was another reminder of why he was doing this.
"I'm delighted you think so." The moment ended and there he was, back to laughing at him. "I believe you're only more likely to think this way once the music actually starts."
"When—" he began, but then he was interrupted by the rest of the audience clapping and he looked back to the stage to see a rangy young man approaching the piano. Oh. Now.
He glanced down at the title of the first piece—Klavierstück, Op. 33a and 33b, apparently—then leaned back in his seat. He'd take a listen to this first pair of pieces without the music, he decided. Maybe later he'd follow along, but he'd done quite enough studying for one week, as far as he was concerned.
His resolution lasted as long as the opening four bars. Then he was fumbling for his music in renewed bewilderment.
The first few chords had been—different, yes, but not unpleasant. But then, after that. . . . Had the pianist lost his place? Forgotten what came next? He didn't look flustered and no one else in the audience seemed concerned on his behalf, so that couldn't be it.
He stared down at his music. Was this honestly how the piece was supposed to sound?
Beside him, against his arm, he could feel Garak shake just a bit with suppressed laughter. So, this was why he told him not to look up Schoenberg: he wanted to see Julian's reaction to being presented with . . . whatever this was. He wasn't sure whether to admire what was the musical equivalent of a practical joke or do some shaking of his partner himself, because really, after a week of frantic assignment-writing, this was what Garak took him to so he could relax?
The—music came to a stop, there was a pause, and then the pianist began playing again (Opus 33b, he assumed). While he'd hoped that this might be a little more melodious than the first part, said hopes vanished very soon into the piece.
When the pianist stood at the end, it was only politeness that had Julian applauding with the rest of the audience. His feelings about the evening had come down heavily on the side of annoyance, and he didn't bother to hide it as he leaned over to mutter to Garak, "Very funny. I hope you have other plans for after this."
Garak's surprise as he looked back at him simply couldn't have been genuine. "Don't you like it?"
"Like it?" His frustration was now well and truly on the rise. "Garak, it's a mess! It sounds as though it were written by someone playing darts with sheet music! Why would I like it?"
"Because it's puzzle music," Garak answered over the applause of the audience as four string players walked onstage and began setting up.
Just like that, Julian's momentum was cut, his unhappiness put on hold. ". . . Puzzle music?"
"Yes, that's right." Garak leaned forward, his hands coming up to gesture, and this wasn't a joke to him, was it? Not completely, anyway, because Garak never had only one motive for doing anything. "Twelve tone serialism is a technique for using all the notes in our tuning system in a row without repeating any of them. The pattern can be reversed or inverted, but it's always present. The challenge" —he smiled— "is finding it."
Julian caught an older couple giving them the kind of look people used when they were too polite to glare and lowered his voice even further. "And that pattern was in the first two pieces we heard?"
"Mm. It should be in most of them." Garak pointed to Julian's programme, his arm crossing into his space. "The ones marked with an asterisk are for the students to study—and for us as well."
"What should I—" Julian began, but once again, he was cut off.
This time, it was by the violinist sitting on the inside of the ring of string players onstage. She threw herself into a harried, jittery sort of melody that was bounced almost right away to the viola player. Julian jerked his score out from beneath his programme and jumped into the challenge of analysing a half-explained concept in a completely unfamiliar musical style while simultaneously attempting to resurrect his atrophied music-reading skills, in real time.
By the end of the movement, he felt as though he'd accidentally run a marathon. Garak, by contrast, looked as sedate as a Sunday stroller. He calmly turned each page with a sort of delicacy, and his posture was impeccable. He certainly didn't rattle about—more non-glares—and hunch over his music like . . . like a dog guarding a bone. Then again, if Garak was capable of not being elegant, Julian had yet to see it.
As the musicians left the stage, Garak leaned over to murmur, "Are you finding the pattern?"
Julian shuffled his sheets around, brow furrowed. "I think so. I wish they'd play it again, though."
"You could go ask them," he suggested. "I'm sure you'd be very popular with the music students."
"Yes, and very unpopular with everyone else," he said right back.
He took a moment to check his programme. Oh, thank god, no star next to this one. He needed a piece to breathe.
. . . And so did the vocalist performing the next piece, apparently. She seemed to be spending her time halfway between speaking and singing, and while the effect was interesting enough—eerie, even—it left him short of breath in sympathy.
Aside from that, this one didn't seem as jarring as the others. Whether that was because his ear and his expectations had adjusted to the alien sounds of the music or it was actually a little more "normal," he couldn't say. Regardless . . . it wasn't bad. He wasn't wishing for the end of the concert anymore, even in spite of no longer having the analysis to keep his mind busy.
He wasn't hoping it was a long concert, though.
"Thank you for bringing me to this, Elim," he said once they were free of the bustle of departing concert attendees. Many of them had greeted the end of the concert as the start of gossip time—they all seemed to know each other—but enough people had left with him and Garak to make getting out of the hall a hassle.
He paused, and then he found he was able to say honestly: "I'm glad we came."
It hadn't been the relaxing evening he had been looking for, but the concert had been so different from his studies that, in the end, he'd actually enjoyed it. What a change that made from those first few discordant notes he'd . . . experienced.
"Oh, it was my pleasure," Garak replied lightly, but Julian could hear the weight behind his words. "I'm gratified you found it such an interesting challenge."
He laughed. "My courses are going to seem easy after this. I suppose I should be thanking you for that, too."
"If you'd like," Garak said and Julian couldn't help but laugh again, because he sounded so smug. (And when had that become an endearing trait?)
The ride home passed too quickly and was filled with the two of them comparing notes on what they'd heard. Julian was triumphant when he discovered he'd held his own very well, and he basked in both his own pleasure at a new experience well examined and Garak's delight in him.
Back in their building, they once more said their goodbyes at the top of the stairs leading to the basement. This time, Julian didn't register the presence of others even after their last kiss had ended.
Julian also didn't register that he had company on his break the next day until the earbuds had been plucked from his ears.
"Wh—"
Jadzia smiled back at him, her expression brimming with mischief. "Whatcha listening to?" she asked as she popped the buds into her ears.
Within seconds, Julian understood firsthand Garak's amusement over exposing him to atonal music without warning. Jadzia ducked her head backwards, but since she was plugged into his phone, the music naturally went with her. "Whoa, what is this?"
"Arnold Schoenberg's Klavierstück, Opus 33b," he informed her with a grin. This was fun.
"Since when do you listen to stuff like that?" She disconnected herself and handed back the earbuds. "For a minute there, I thought I had grabbed Worf's headphones by mistake."
"Garak took me to a concert last night," he explained, his smile reflexively warming. He slung the headphones around his neck and hit pause. "It's surprising how much Schoenberg grows on you."
Jadzia gave him a bit of a funny look. "If you say so."
"And anyway, I don't think Worf would listen to this kind of music," he went on. "He said it was 'dangerous.'"
The bit of a funny look turned into a lot of a funny look. "Because it gives people headaches?"
"I don't know, actually. He didn't say."
"Let's find out." Jadzia leaned around the corner into the kitchen. "Hey Worf? Worf!"
Parting Worf from his beloved headphones, as always, took a great deal of work (and bravery). Luckily, he was able to leave the job to Jadzia; Worf always seem to react to her a little better than to everyone else.
Once Jadzia had his full attention, she said, "Julian tells me you said this guy Schoenberg's music is dangerous."
"That is correct," Worf answered with apparently perfect seriousness.
"You wouldn't happen to mind explaining that, would you?" she asked.
"It is music that follows its own rules. It has little in common with the musics most people here are used to. To enjoy Schoenberg, one must always be thinking, adapting to its ways. But the moment one does" —he scowled— "it shifts into something different. Something new. It is treacherous music. That," he concluded as he folded his arms, "is why it is dangerous."
Jadzia turned to him at the end of Worf's speech, which was enough to tip his wide grin into full-out laughter.
"Thank you, Worf," he said when he could. "I understand much better now."
"Good." Already, Worf was reaching for his headphones. "It takes much courage to listen to Schoenberg. It is not music to be taken lightly."
"No," he agreed, "but I think it's very rewarding—hey!"
It was amazing how innocent Jadzia could look for someone who had just finished half-shoving him into the counter. "Better get back to work, loverboy, before Nerys starts snapping her gum at you."
"'Loverboy'?" he repeated indignantly. Who even used that word these days? Besides Trills, apparently—that must have been Curzon talking.
Jadzia only laughed and left him to get back to work. All through the remainder of his shift and for the rest of the day, Julian repeatedly became aware of his phone in his pocket—and the little piece of Garak it held in the shape of some truly odd but increasingly well-liked bits of music.
For anyone who wants to experience what Julian and Garak did, here are links to the pieces I referenced over the course of the fic:
Klavierstück, Op. 33a and 33b
String Quartet no. 3, op. 30, I. Moderato
Pierrot Lunaire, Op. 21 (excerpts)
