Perhaps because it was also the start of a new year, Paulo Costa always found himself more reflective than usual on his birthday. The beginning of 2402 was also the beginning of the last year of his twenties. While he’d always hoped to hit captain before his thirtieth birthday, that seemed like a somewhat remote possibility now—though 2401 had been a rollercoaster of a year, beginning with him as a lieutenant and ending as a senior officer, so who knew what this next year would bring. While the promotion had been nice, the best thing about 2401 in Paulo’s life was standing a few meters away in the en suite, fussing with his tawny blond hair.

“You’re staring,” Hawthorne noted without turning around.

“Damn right I am,” Costa replied.

Arms draped over the back of the padded headboard, Costa had only needed a few minutes to change into a form-fitting white polo shirt and classic salmon shorts for dinner. Hawthorne was proceeding at a much more deliberate pace as he got ready. It was interesting to watch him decide between three different shirts and two pairs of trousers, considering that they essentially never had to make any sartorial decisions in Starfleet. There was an unsaid message in his precision: “I want to get this right for your family.”

It was very unlikely that any of Costa’s relatives would care what Hawthorne was wearing, but he still appreciated the tacit sentiment. And, besides, Hawthorne never did anything casually.

After a few more minutes of primping, Hawthorne emerged from the bathroom wearing cream-colored slacks and a perfectly pressed pink button-down shirt with just one button left open past the collar. As he approached Costa, he rolled the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows with military precision, smiling softly because he knew his boyfriend liked seeing him that way. His colors were the inverse of what Costa was wearing, in more pastel tones. Only someone as thoughtful and precise as Hawthorne would have taken the time to go through an agonizing array of hues to match him so intentionally.

“Am I acceptable?”

“Very, very acceptable,” Costa agreed, taking it all in. He hopped up from the bed. “You might be a little warm, though. This is Rio in January, after all…”

“I’m not wearing shorts to dinner,” Hawthorne said, practically scoffing at the thought.

Costa knew better than to push the issue, but he reached over to unbutton one more button on Hawthorne’s shirt, edging him a little further away from his classic British sense of style to something a little closer to Brazilian sensibilities. He considered it a victory when the other man didn’t refasten it. Before he could formulate a joke about that, Hawthorne placed a hand on his chest and pushed him back to a seated position on the edge of the bed. Then, he matter-of-factly perched on his lap, his knees straddling Costa’s hips.

“Well, happy birthday to me,” Costa murmured.

With his hands going automatically to Hawthorne’s hips to steady him, Costa’s face was pressed into the warm, soft skin of his boyfriend’s neck. He smelled like fir, citrus, and musk from the cologne he always wore off-duty, a scent Costa had happily become very familiar with over the prior nine months or so. Nuzzling him there, he felt Hawthorne shudder when his tiny amount of stubble raked across his skin. It was a challenge of willpower not to send the clothes Hawthorne had just spent twenty minutes deciding on into a pile on the floor.

Hawthorne’s deft fingers went to Costa’s thick, wavy hair and gently but firmly pulled his head back so they could look each other in the eyes.

“Before I have to share you with your family again, I just wanted to remind you who you belong to, Paulo,” Hawthorne said cooly.

That wasn’t like Hawthorne—he could be bossy and even demanding, but he was rarely that direct. Costa wasn’t complaining, though—Hawthorne’s weight on his lap, his warmth through their clothes, and the way his hands were gripping his scalp all sent an electric thrill up his spine. More than that, though, it was Hawthorne’s absolute certainty and earnestness that had Costa stunned and eager to see where he was taking him.

“Who do I belong to, Tristan?” Costa asked.

“Me,” Hawthorne said before kissing him.

“Yes, I definitely do,” Costa agreed.

Costa leaned in to try to kiss him again, but Hawthorne pulled back. Reaching to his back pocket, Hawthorne retrieved a small case and showed it to him.

“I have a present for you,” Hawthorne explained, opening the case to reveal a small gold pendant on a slim, stylish chain of woven metal. It was enough to make Costa nearly forget to breathe, as he knew what it was. The pendant had a small relief of Achilles and Patroclus on it. It was perfect and it immediately made Costa’s heart melt. “I got it back in London. It was difficult waiting to give it to you.”

“It’s beautiful,” Costa said, beaming.

Early on in their relationship, he’d learned that they were both fascinated by that story—a love so strong and intense that it was worth burning the world down over. His eyes flickered up to Hawthorne’s, anticipation and nerves shining through his cerulean gaze as he waited for Costa to say more. It was difficult to articulate his thoughts in that moment, with his emotions swirling around on top of the way his physical senses were being overwhelmed. He knew that’s probably what Hawthorne was going for, though.

“I love you,” Costa managed. “Could you put it on for me? My hands are full,” he teased, squeezing his hips for emphasis.

Hawthorne complied, taking the necklace out of the case and then fastening it behind Costa’s neck. It draped itself perfectly just below his collarbone, nestled in the beginning of the cleft between his pecs.

“Thank you, baby,” Costa said before kissing him deeply. “You spoil me.”

“I do,” Hawthorne agreed before gingerly stepping back and off of his lap. Now, that was like him—being an absolute tease just when things were about to amp up. Costa’s disappointment must have been clearly visible to him. “Dessert can wait until after dinner,” he noted, turning smartly on his heel to leave their guest room.

Needing a moment to collect himself, Costa exhaled slowly. “Rude!” he muttered, smoothing his hair down with his fingers from where Hawthorne had left it rumpled.

Out of curiosity, he slipped the necklace off to look at it more closely. It was clearly hand-made and of the highest quality, which was exactly Hawthorne’s style. When he flipped it over, his heart caught in his throat for a moment.

The pendant was engraved in tiny lettering: “P: I’d sack Troy for you. -A”

“Fuck,” Costa muttered to himself, momentarily overwhelmed by that sentiment.

His stomach, his heart, and his throat were all doing acrobatics. They’d never talked about it, but Costa had always kind of imagined that if they had to label themselves, Hawthorne was more of a Patroclus type. Supportive. Contemplative. Willing to let Costa charge into danger as Achilles. It was so like Hawthorne to flip that narrative in a bold reminder of the fire he felt for him. It was also very like him to bury the lede and not mention the engraving at all before making a beeline out of the room.

Costa put the necklace back on and admired it in the mirror on the way out of the door. His mind was racing with grandiose romantic gestures to settle the score. There was no way he was going to let him “win” at being an amazing boyfriend, after all.