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Summary
Bashir is everywhere, and it should be suffocating. He’s above him, against him, inside him. His body lines Garak’s; he is utterly pinned from toe to fingertip. Even his face is pressed against his as to block from everything from his view except the small gap between the mattress and the plane of Bashir. His cheek, absent of that curious scratch that had taken residence upon his face at the camp muffles the world and puts it at a distant remove. The world has narrowed to the small, dark space carved out between body and mattress and blanket; to muffled breaths and the steady, unyielding press of flesh.
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Or: After Internment Camp 371 Garak is cold. Bashir warms him. It would be nice; only it’s a pity Garak was never meant to be granted anything.