Stillness: Part 1/2

Posted on Tue Aug 26th, 2025 @ 11:36pm by Civilian Laeon Wylde & Crewman Mateo Gardel

2,904 words; about a 15 minute read

Mission: To Boldly Go
Location: Arboretum, Deck 8, USS Fenrir
Timeline: MD 8

ON:

The arboretum wasn’t entirely silent—but it was close enough. The gentle hum of the environmental systems blended with the rustling of artificially generated wind through a canopy of alien foliage. Soft lighting filtered down from simulated starlight overhead, casting long shadows between bioluminescent petals and oversized leaves that shimmered like oil on water. Mateo moved carefully along the path, his boots soundless against the polished stone, hands tucked into the pockets of his off-duty trousers. His shoulders were still tight, coiled from too many hours upright in the lab, but here—in this muted, green-haloed space—he could at least pretend to exhale.

He hadn’t come looking for company. In fact, he’d deliberately waited until beta shift was in full swing, hoping the arboretum would be empty. Crowds drained him. Conversations demanded too much performance. He was fine being alone—better than fine, most days—but lately the silence had started to echo. He didn’t know what he was looking for. Maybe just a place where his thoughts didn’t ricochet off the walls like stray phaser fire. The air smelled faintly of damp soil and something floral but unfamiliar, like a memory half-formed. He stepped off the main path without thinking, drawn by a soft melodic hum threading through the quiet.

That’s when he saw him. A lone figure seated on a low bench beneath an arching branch of deep violet blossoms, sketchbook open in his lap, head bent in focused calm. Blonde hair caught the ambient glow, halo-like. The sound hadn’t been the arboretum—it had been him. Mateo hesitated mid-step, caught between instinct and curiosity. The boy didn’t seem to notice him yet, too absorbed in whatever he was drawing. For a moment, Mateo simply watched, unsure if he was intruding or invited, the quiet so absolute it felt like stepping into a cathedral.

The teenage looking youth worked with a black charcoal on the page. Laeon Wylde worked with delicate strokes, pausing every few to use a fingertip to smudge. He looked back towards the water, just watching the leaves on it for a moment, his teeth worrying his lower lip for a moment before he went back to it. And then...he paused. He lifted his head, as if listening...then turned his head towards Mateo. He straightened up at seeing him, a somewhat apologetic smile already coming to him. "Sorry, do I need to leave?"

Mateo blinked, drawn back from the quiet rhythm of Laeon’s movements to the warmth in his voice. The question—do I need to leave?—wasn’t defensive, just courteous, but it still landed with an ache he didn’t expect. He took a small step closer, enough to see the charcoal lines more clearly on the page. From this distance, the sketch came into focus: not a literal rendering, but something expressive and fluid. Leaves reflected on water, light broken into textured strokes, motion captured mid-stillness. Not just talent—intuition. The faint, papery whisper of charcoal on textured paper lingered in the air, blending with the low rustle of artificial wind through broad-leafed branches overhead.

“You don’t,” Mateo said, voice quieter this time. “You’re not in the way.” A pause, then, after a breath: “I was just walking. Trying to breathe somewhere that doesn’t hum or blink at me.” The quiet here felt different—lush and layered, not empty. He could smell something earthy and green beneath it all, like sun-warmed bark and the soft musk of damp soil.

He let his gaze drift back to the sketchpad, the charcoal texture pulling his attention in. “That’s... really beautiful,” he said, his tone unguarded now. “It feels like water without needing to be exact. Like memory more than reference.” He shifted his weight slightly, the seam of his boot scuffing against the stone path, fingers tightening in his pocket before relaxing again. “I paint sometimes—watercolors mostly. Nothing like this.” A small breath of amusement followed, not quite a laugh. “I usually end up chasing the feeling of something until it falls apart on the page.” He tilted his head, eyes tracing the blurred shadows Laeon had smudged with care. “But you’ve got it. The balance. It’s quiet, but it says a lot.”

He glanced away then, as if realizing he’d said more than he meant to. His eyes tracked a drifting petal as it spun lazily across the surface of the water, its pale shape rippling under simulated moonlight. Cool air moved softly across the back of his neck, stirring the ends of his damp hair. “Sorry,” he said, softer this time. “Didn’t mean to analyze your sketch to death. It just… caught me off guard. In a good way.” He offered the faintest curve of a smile, something understated but sincere. “Hope it’s okay I said something.”

"I'm just glad you like it," Laeon admitted softly, the pleasure from the kind words all too evident in his soft tone of voice. He shifted over to make more space next to him on the mossy undergrowth, in case he cared to join him. He added another few strokes to the page, and the way he moved the nib made some of the shaping more evident. Within the movement of the water on the page, there were deliberate shapes. Letters in his own language. They had been intertwined with the image, but only in the water, becoming a part of it, subtle under the first impressions.

Laeon set the charcoal aside, brushing his hands off before hugging a leg close, setting his chin on his knee as he watched the man with curiosity. The markings on his face, the colour in his hair and the jewellery...they were more vibrant than he remembered seeing in the fleet before, but he liked it a lot, and it made his smile widen. "I love your markings..." he used charcoal smudged fingers to wave close to his own hair and face to indicate what he meant.

Mateo watched as Laeon shifted, the moss underfoot pressing soft and springy beneath the boy’s movements. It was only after the sketch was adjusted—just a few strokes more—that Mateo saw it. Not immediately, but as his eyes followed the curves in the water, the shapes resolved like whispers in negative space. Letters, he thought. Language hidden in the ripples. Not random decoration, but intention. Thoughtfulness, coded into beauty. He didn’t recognize the script, but the rhythm of it stirred something familiar—like watching music you couldn’t hear.

He moved without thinking, drawn in more than invited, and lowered himself to sit beside Laeon in the space that had been offered. The undergrowth shifted softly beneath his weight, cool and alive. A beat passed in quiet, then another, until Laeon’s voice returned, unguarded and kind.

I love your markings...

Mateo blinked, caught off guard for the second time that night. He turned to meet Laeon’s gaze, then glanced down almost reflexively at the patterns etched across his own hands, then to the dark ink stretching along his forearm where his sleeve had pulled back. “Thanks,” he said quietly, voice softer now. “They’re... sort of like a language too, I guess. Not one anyone else could really read. But they mean things. Most of them.” A small huff of breath escaped—part laugh, part sigh. “Some were just moments I didn’t want to forget. So I made them permanent.”

He rubbed a thumb idly over a faded starburst just above his wrist. “I don’t think anyone’s said that to me before,” he added, not quite looking at Laeon but not avoiding him either. “Not like that.”

"Then they should have," Laeon chuckled gently though, leaning in to see some of the more intricate work on him. His father would kill him if he even thought of following suit, but it was fun to see what others had done. He reached out, not quite touching the starburst, but almost. "What's this one for?" he asked fearlessly, but his smile was gentle as he looked to him with sincere blue/violet eyes.

Mateo’s breath caught—not sharply, not in alarm, but in a reflexive flicker of tension. His muscles coiled beneath his skin the moment Laeon’s hand moved, his body preparing for contact that, mercifully, never came. The boy’s fingers hovered instead, respectful, deliberate, and that restraint gave Mateo room to exhale. He didn’t move away. Didn’t bristle. Just… let the moment pass like a current washing over stone. He glanced at the starburst on his wrist, then back at Laeon’s face, the sincerity in those strange, striking eyes softening the edges of his nerves.

“Good instincts,” he murmured, voice quiet but not unkind. “Most people don’t stop.”

He turned his wrist slightly, letting Laeon see the ink more clearly. It was a small, layered burst of lines and negative space—not a perfect sun, but something fractured, as if captured mid-explosion. The center was solid black, almost scorched-looking, while the rays fractured out in uneven spikes and broken threads. At a glance, it might have looked angry. But there was symmetry in the chaos, too.

“It’s from when I was a teenager,” Mateo said, watching the tattoo instead of Laeon now. “I’d just finished this... program. Behavioral therapy. Counseling. They told me I’d come through it stronger. Brighter.” A short, amused breath escaped him. “I didn’t feel brighter. I felt like something broke and kept burning. But I didn’t want to forget that I made it through. So... I marked it.”

His voice grew quieter, but steadier. “It reminds me that sometimes survival isn’t clean or pretty. But it still counts.”

A frown settled on Laeon's features at the words. They had touched him in so many ways that the other man couldn't understand. Survival. What was left of his family, their survival hadn't been clean either. And it had been every shade of ugly. He knew his father still felt it deeper than he did, but he had his own murky moments to contend with. "Did counselling help at all?" he asked quietly. His father had tried to chivvy him to counselling more times than he could count. He always resisted.

Mateo didn’t answer right away. His eyes stayed fixed on the ink beneath his skin, the broken starburst quiet against the soft shift of artificial wind. The question lingered between them—not invasive, not pushy. Just curious. Gentle. But it still caught him in that place that always tensed when someone stepped too close to the truth. He wasn’t used to being asked things like that without an agenda. It felt strange to let the silence hold the question instead of defending against it.

He let out a slow, quiet puff of air—almost a sigh, more thought than exhaustion—and finally said, “It did. Not all at once. And not in the way I expected.” He drew a breath deeper this time, grounding himself in the details—soil beneath him, distant hum of arboretum life-support, the charcoal still clinging faintly to the air. “The hard part wasn’t talking. It was letting go of the idea that being right meant being safe. I’ve spent most of my life pushing back against anything that tried to contain me. But counseling... it gave me a place where I didn’t have to fight every single second to be understood. It wasn’t easy. Still isn’t. But the difference is—now I want to understand myself, too.”

He glanced over at Laeon then, studying him not with scrutiny, but recognition. “It’s not about fixing you. It’s about making space for all the parts you’ve had to hide just to get by. Especially the ones that don’t make sense to anyone else.” He paused, then added more softly, “That kind of survival leaves marks, too. Doesn’t mean they don’t deserve to heal.”

Laeon watched him with fascination at the way he'd put it. He would never have thought to look at it from that point of view. In all honesty, he doubted his father had either. It made it sound less daunting, as if there were less stakes, less to get right or wrong. The idea was still strange though, for the youth that had come from a culture where people unloaded their burdens to priests, not doctors of the mind. It felt less spiritual and more...clinical. "I'm Laeon," he finally offered, realising that he hadn't even introduced himself yet. He offered his hand over in a deliberate motion, adopting the human greeting in a knowing manner.

Mateo looked at the offered hand for a long moment, his expression unreadable but not unkind. It wasn’t hesitation out of awkwardness—it was calculation, restraint. The space between them suddenly felt louder, almost charged, like static under his skin. He understood the gesture, understood what it meant for someone like Laeon to reach out like that. But even as his chest tightened with appreciation, a familiar prickling gathered at the edges of his fingers, like his nerves were bracing for impact. The disconnect wasn’t personal. It never was. It was just... too much. Always had been.

“I’m Mateo,” he said quietly, choosing presence over performance. He didn’t take the hand, but he didn’t let the gesture go unnoticed either. Instead, he pressed two fingers to the inside of his wrist—his version of acknowledgment. A quiet ritual, born of need and self-awareness. “Sorry,” he added, eyes flicking briefly to Laeon’s hand and then back to his face. “I don’t do well with... physical stuff. Not even handshakes.” His voice stayed open, unguarded in a way that surprised even him. “But I see what you were doing. And I really do appreciate it.”

He gave the faintest smile then—just enough to soften the edges of the moment. “Your name suits you,” he said, his voice quieter now. “Feels like light caught in the middle of something dark.” A pause followed, companionable and still. Then: “So what do you do around here, anyway? Besides making the rest of us look underdressed and artistically inadequate.”

Laeon laughed softly at the words, but kept the noise low in the stillness of the bay. He seemed unoffended by his not taking his hand. On the contrary, as someone who hadn't been raised to shake hands, it seemed an oddly intimate ritual to greet a relative stranger. He lowered the hand delicately, straightening up his paper. "My father works here now," he gave a wry smile, tilting his head from side to side which hinted at a sense of unfairness that he couldn't. "Alexion Wylde, he's a doctor. I'm...still being schooled," he gave a half, reluctant shrug at that. Because it was a well trodden argument between himself and his father. "So I thought I'd get to know the ship while he works."

Mateo’s brow lifted slightly at the name—not in surprise exactly, but in recognition. Alexion Wylde. The name had floated through Sickbay often enough—usually with a mix of respect and weary exasperation—but Mateo had yet to put a face to it. He knew the basics: a Starfleet doctor, rumored to be brilliant and sharp-edged in equal measure. That last part didn’t mean much to him. Reputations were often just reflections of other people’s discomforts. Still, it caught his attention—Laeon was clearly navigating the edges of something. Family. Expectation. Something Mateo knew far too well.

“Still being schooled,” Mateo echoed, letting the phrase roll through the space like it had weight. “That’s got a very particular ring to it.” He didn’t mock it, didn’t even smile—but there was something understanding in the way he said it. “Sounds like it wasn’t your idea.” His voice remained soft, but there was a knowing edge to it, the kind that only came from someone who’d once fought similar battles. He didn’t press, though. Just let the observation hang there, offered like a thread that didn’t need to be pulled.

“You picked a good spot to start,” he added after a beat, nodding toward the still water and the sweep of the bay around them. “The ship’s a lot. Loud in places. People everywhere. But this—” his gaze returned to the sketchbook and the delicate curves of language hidden in the charcoal—“this feels like something real. The kind of thing worth getting to know.”

"It's beautiful," Laeon breathed as he looked around, taking in the shapes of the leaves and petals, the subtle quivering movements, the ripples of water and air. "A miracle...nature nurtured on a metal ship," it was clear he enjoyed the juxtaposition. "We've been on ships for....over twenty years now. But I'm still not used to it. I don't mind, it's not *bad*, just...enclosed. Unnatural. Claustrophobic." He shifted his arms, as if trying to find more space for himself. "And never just...still."

TBC:

Crewman Mateo Gardel
Medical Science Specialist
USS Fenrir

Laeon Wylde
Civilian Dependent
USS Fenrir
(PNPC Blake)

 

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