While small compared to what Starfleet was calling a light cruiser or even a heavy frigate in the 25th century, Arondight was a deck larger than the 23rd-century Miranda-class light cruiser that had been broken up and incorporated into her construction. For almost a hundred years, essentially the same spaceframe that this new Reliant-class Arondight still had was considered a platform capable of extended deep space exploration in its own right. It was not a “small” ship or in any way deficient in carrying out Starfleet’s core objectives on her own. Some of her decks were a little tighter than in the old class, but she had more volume and more deck space, along with a smaller crew thanks to enormous strides in automation, leaving Arondight with a comfortable standard of living, even for someone like Paulo Costa who had spent his entire career on large ships—the previous three years on Arcturus, a flying city in her own right.

So, as Costa settled into the real, non-holographic sauna off of the main gym, he was grateful that he and Hawthorne hadn’t been sent off to some Dominion War relic that would be lucky to have a gym at all, let alone a wood-paneled sauna. He’d miss the steakhouse on Arcturus, though. And the Olympic-sized swimming pool. At least he’d managed to take his favorite aspect of serving on that ship along with him: Tristan Hawthorne.

After a surprisingly intense and athletic tennis match that left Costa thoroughly defeated, Hawthorne was sitting opposite him in the sauna. He’d been quite clear that he’d prefer to make a beeline straight to one of their quarters, but Costa was nothing if not a proselytizer for the health benefits of saunas. The dry heat made Costa feel amazing like all of his muscles and pores were opening up to a reset after some energetic cardio. Hawthorne’s version of affection was an affirming word or a thoughtful replicator selection, while Costa’s version was physical touch or gently bullying his partner into self-care—twenty minutes in the sauna, in this case. He could tell something was up: Hawthorne was always a little neurotic, but he’d seemed particularly on edge that day.

“You’ve been very… you… today, Tristan. Que pasa?”

Hawthorne pulled his pretty lips into a pout for what seemed like the hundredth time while also looking resigned to answer Costa’s question: he knew he wasn’t getting out of it. He smoothed his towel along his waist and down his legs as if adding a crease to them, and Costa could see the thousands of wheels and gears turning behind his blue eyes.

“I have been, haven’t I?” he admitted. “Being center-stage today… I miss my quiet linguistic anthropology on deck one thousand back on Arcturus. Deck one is far too conspicuous. That thing with the sensors earlier… I don’t know if I’m ready for this.”

“You’ve got this. You saw the reading, and you called for maintenance. What else could you have done? Do you really think Michael Lancaster, of all people, would recommend you to run a sonic shower, let alone the science department for an entire ship if he had any doubts about you? If I had to bet, I’d say you have fewer direct reports now than you did before, even,” Costa said, allowing all of his thoughts to tumble out of his head all at once.

Hawthorne clicked his tongue. “Correct. There are forty scientists here. The social sciences department had over a hundred,” he admitted. “It’s a different scope of responsibility, though. You’re built for the bridge. I’m not,” he added, gesturing at Costa. “Look at you. There’s more steel in you than the Golden Gate Bridge.”

Costa cocked his head; he liked the compliment, but there was a lot to unpack there. Hawthorne had hinted at various unfounded feelings of inadequacy before, but this flavor of it was new. His clumsy attempt at a pun was surely something Costa hadn’t seen before—and it was very much Costa’s territory to botch, mix, and fumble verbal devices.

“Sorry. I know I’m in my own head about this,” Hawthorne offered before Costa could reply.

“Sounds like it,” Costa agreed. “It’s okay to be in your head, though.”

Though a self-identified “vapid, empty-headed himbo,” to borrow one of Hawthorne’s own barbs from back at the Academy, Costa still knew that he knew when to let napping cats slumber. He had learned early on that Hawthorne did not react well to being smothered. Still, it hurt his heart when his paramour couldn’t see what others saw in him. At the very least, it was beginning to sound like a comment on Costa’s taste. It wasn’t until they’d slept together on the Segnius Flyer in the mission to liberate the Farpoint Cnidarian that he realized it, but he’d spent half of his life pining for Hawthorne. 

A box of boxes of puzzles wrapped in crosswords, or whatever the saying was, Hawthorne’s various contradictions kept Costa chasing after him like a hamster and the mailman. He was as arrogant as one could possibly be on duty but crushingly shy and self-conscious in private. He was deeply knowledgeable about all aspects of how beings could communicate with one another, yet also refreshingly naive about life outside his lab. He was stunningly beautiful, with perfectly coiffed blond hair that didn’t have the decency to even allow a single strand out of place even in the sauna, yet he took compliments about as well as the Borg were to accept latinum.

Most of all, Costa felt like he had to do something to cheer him up and knew Hawthorne deeply wanted him to try to do so, but also that he wouldn’t make it easy. Good, Hawthorne being “easy” was never one of his selling points.

“You’re staring at me,” Hawthorne noted while Costa was tracking a bead of perspiration as it made its way down his Apollonian white-gold skin from his chest down to his abdominal muscles.

“That’s correct, yes.”

“Can I ask why?”

“Because I’m thinking about all of the ways I’m going to get you so far out of your head tonight that the only thing you’ll have to fixate on is me, starting with licking that single, solitary drop of sweat off of your impossibly flawless skin,” Costa admitted, purposefully goading Hawthorne into a reaction seated somewhere other than his frontal cortex. 

He, therefore, considered that outrageous statement to be successful when Tristan was left speechless and flaring his nostrils. The next thing that Costa said, though, was completely without forethought. 

“I was also thinking about how much I love you, Tristan.” 

Costa heard those words as they slipped out of his mouth and knew that they were true while also understanding that it was not something he should have said without a little more planning. And perhaps a more romantic setting than a sauna at the gym. They had come so close to saying those words before in the four months since they started seeing each other, but both of them had an unspoken block there. For Costa, it felt amazing to get that off his chest, but his lack of smoothness instantly made him nauseous.

“Paulo, I—,” Hawthorne started to respond, but he was interrupted by the door to the sauna sliding open.

Costa was hit by a wave of cold air, and he caught the last snippets of the conversation between Lieutenants Robinson and Sadir as the two other men entered the sauna, similarly clad to him and Hawthorne in Starfleet-issue towels cinched around their waists.

“Commanders,” Sadir said respectfully.

“They don’t have any clothes on, so it’s Paulo and Tristan,” Robinson dissented as he plopped himself down in the corner next to Costa, while Sadir took a slightly more dignified approach to settling in next to Hawthorne. “What’s up, boys? We just crushed a push day in the weight room.”

The impossibly bad timing of their entrance had Costa’s heart pounding. He normally liked Robinson quite a lot, especially when he was bantering with Hawthorne, but he could also be a lot. Hawthorne was right in the middle of the sarcasm spectrum, but Robinson had a bad habit of taking things a few steps too far.

“That sounds almost as satisfying as wiping the tennis court with the first officer,” Hawthorne interjected, his face automatically transitioning to ‘public-facing politeness mode’ with a level of agility that Costa found a little troubling. “I had to take out some frustration with that tachyon glitch earlier,” he added, chuckling in a very believable manner.

“Why? It wasn’t your fault,” Robinson replied, surprising Costa with his innocuous appraisal. “You were the only one who caught it. Isn’t that a good thing?” 

“I don’t think it’s productive to ask others why they feel the way they feel—we should validate them,” Sadir cut in, his black Betazoid eyes flickering uncomfortably between Costa and Hawthorne. “I hope you find your exertions therapeutic, Tristan,” he said with near-monastic serenity.

“It was. Thank you, Garun,” Hawthorne said, pronouncing the security officer’s first name with a level of precision that Costa felt he would be unable to replicate. “Paulo has already pointed out the neuroticism I’m experiencing, and you’re both right, Cooper,” he added with a small smile. That smile faltered, though, and Costa saw Hawthorne start to breathe more quickly. “If you’ll excuse me, though, I think I need some air,” he said before bolting out of the sauna.

Costa sat there dumbstruck momentarily at how spectacularly he’d failed to stick the landing.

“What are you still doing here?” Sadir asked bluntly.

“Right. See you guys later,” Costa said before scrambling after Hawthorne.

Luckily, Hawthorne was just down the hall pulling his workout clothes back out his locker. Costa moved in and took his hand. He could see tears welling in the other man’s eyes, which was definitely not the reaction he anticipated.

“Please don’t run from me,” Costa said.

“I wasn’t. I just needed to get out of there.”

“I’m really sorry for—” he tried, but Hawthorne stopped him.

“Only apologize if you didn’t mean it.”

“I did mean it. I just didn’t mean for it to come out so casually. Especially while you were feeling down about something. That wasn’t fair.”

Hawthorne nodded. “Good,” he said with a small smile. 

“You’re not mad at me, right?”

“I am not mad at you, Paulo. I’d also rather not have this conversation here. Can we please move on to item two on your agenda?” Hawthorne asked, referring to Costa’s checklist of activities for their afternoon and evening together. 

A wave of relief hit Costa when he was sure that he hadn’t ruined his chances with Hawthorne, but he was hoping for a little more reciprocity than just “good.” Still, not being rejected left him hopeful that Hawthorne might reciprocate those feelings, even if he wasn’t yet ready to say them aloud, considering Costa had been in that exact situation until just a few minutes prior.

“Computer, site-to-site transport. Two to beam to the first officer’s quarters,” Costa ordered in response to Hawthorne’s question.

The two men materialized in the living room of Costa’s quarters, a two-room suite with a private head identical but mirrored compared to Hawthorne’s quarters across the hall. They’d spent every night of that cruise there, mainly because Hawthorne’s were directly over the captain’s quarters, while Costa’s were above a vacant guest suite. A little smaller than the quarters back on Arcturus, they were still a comfortable, cozy place that was already starting to feel like home. 

“I’m not sure that was a responsible use of the transporter,” Hawthorne chided.

Costa replied by closing the distance between them and kissing him. The two were quickly all over one another. As they kissed, Hawthorne pushed Costa backward through the double doors into the bedroom. They tumbled onto the bed with a bounce, and things began to get heated, so heated that Costa was able to move on from his disappointment. Seeming to be hit by some sort of revelation, though, Hawthorne broke the kiss and put his hand up on Costa’s chest.

“There’s something I have to tell you. It can’t wait until after,” Hawthorne said, his blue eyes wide and plaintive. “It’s important, and I don’t think you’re going to like it.”

Costa’s blood ran cold at that statement. It sounded ominous—like a Rubicon not to be cast.