Starlight, Part 2
Posted on Sat Feb 15th, 2025 @ 11:46pm by Crewman Mateo Gardel & Petty Officer 3rd Class Constantin Vansen
3,997 words; about a 20 minute read
Mission:
To Boldly Go
Location: Valhalla Bar, USS Fenrir
Timeline: Day 10
[ON - Continued]
Up close, the stranger was just as irritatingly good-looking as Mateo had clocked him from a distance. Strong jaw. Piercing blue eyes. Unfairly symmetrical. The kind of face that probably looked good rolling out of bed, half-asleep, and not even trying.
Fucking obnoxious.
Vansen was watching him—not in a way that felt invasive, but open, perceptive, like he was taking in details without judgment. Mateo felt the gaze settle over him, too direct, too easy, and for a split second, heat crept up the back of his neck. It wasn’t much—barely there—but he felt it all the same.
He ignored it. Focused instead on the smile, the nod, the effortless way the other man invited conversation. The ease of it was almost infuriating.
Mateo huffed a small breath, something caught between amusement and self-awareness. "I should warn you—I’m objectively terrible at general chit-chat," he said, tone dry but without real bite. "So, awkward conversation it is. Until it inevitably shifts into awkward silence. And then I guess we’ll just have to see where we go from there."
He picked up his drink and took a measured sip, meeting Vansen’s eyes briefly over the rim of his glass before setting it back down with deliberate care.
And just like that, the silence crept in anyway.
Vansen chuckled at the way that Mateo had put it. He nodded, taking his drink to sip. Nothing exciting, just flavoured water. This was lychee, which was oddly sweet, but...he sort of liked sweet. "That's okay, I am not sure what chit-chat is anyway. So I won't have anything to measure against," he finally said and put his own glass down. "I'm Constantin Vansen. I work in Operations," he introduced himself, finding it easier just to do it that way.
He wasn't sure if he was annoying the man, or if it was just the situation. Truth was, even if he was annoying him, he wasn't sure with what so he had no way of stopping it. He picked up his sandwich, taking a bite and chewing it. It had been...what was it? Some cheese, tomato and a...pesto, was it? He couldn't really remember, it was just something from Earth. That he knew. And he tried to try new things every day, even if sometimes he didn't like it.
"We don't have to talk if you don't want to," he said after swallowing, realising that it was rude to just assume. Another social thing he was learning. Just because he liked talking to people didn't mean others felt the same way.
So, the stranger had a name.
Mateo glanced up, turning the syllables over in his head. Constantin. He let the name sit on his tongue for a moment before saying it aloud, quietly, like testing the shape of it. His lips parted slightly, brow ticking upward—a flicker of something almost thoughtful—before he smoothed it away.
There was something solid about it, something with weight, but not in a way that dragged—it suited him, somehow. A good name. A strong one. Old, too. Mateo’s mind flicked through his mental archive, pulling up the origin before he even made the conscious decision to do so.
"Latin, from constantinus," he murmured, more to himself than to Vansen, but he followed through anyway. "Steadfast, unwavering. It’s a fitting name."
He wasn’t sure why he said that part—he wasn’t in the habit of offering people personal insight within two minutes of meeting them—but it slipped out before he could stop it.
Mateo shifted slightly in his seat, rolling one shoulder, fingers idly toying with the edge of his napkin as he considered Vansen’s next words.
We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to.
The easy, nonchalant way he said it gave Mateo pause. No one ever offered him an out without a catch—either they wanted something from him, or they assumed his silence meant disinterest, even hostility.
Vansen wasn’t pushing. He wasn’t reading too much into Mateo’s hesitations, either.
And that was... different.
For a moment, he really considered taking the out. It would be so easy. Just nod, focus on his food, let the moment pass in mutual silence.
But then what? Spend another meal alone? Keep existing in the same self-imposed isolation loop that had gotten him here in the first place?
Mateo exhaled slowly through his nose. No.
Not this time.
He wasn’t about to launch into a sweeping, life-changing social renaissance, but he could at least try to engage like a functional person.
He lifted his drink, taking a small sip before resting it back against the table. “Chit-chat is an interesting concept,” he mused, voice even, more thoughtful than sarcastic. "I don’t think anyone actually knows what it is. They just do it because it’s expected."
His gaze flicked briefly to Vansen’s glass, the subtle sweetness of lychee lingering in the air between them. Unexpected, but then, maybe he shouldn’t assume.
Still, it wasn’t a common choice.
"You have a sweet tooth."
It wasn’t a question. Just an observation.
Mateo’s gaze flicked toward his tray, the subtle sweetness of the lychee still lingering between them. His fingers tapped idly against the ceramic plate beside his meal—three alfajores, golden and dusted with powdered sugar. One of the few indulgences he allowed himself.
He hesitated, then nudged the plate toward the middle of the table—not quite an invitation, not quite withholding it either. Just a quiet, unspoken offering.
And then, because it felt important to clarify, he glanced toward the crowded bar, the low thrumming bassline, the clusters of bodies shifting through the space in an endless churn of movement.
“It’s not you, by the way,” he said, tilting his head slightly in indication. "The noise, the crowd—it’s just a lot."
A beat of honesty. No deflection.
And just like that, the conversation was his to let slip away—or keep going.
Vansen smiled as Mateo spoke, surprised he had decided to talk. He nodded, watching him before he gestured to his own drink. "I like sweet things. And salty. And spicy...when you grow up on basically...well, nutrient bars, this? This is a revelation. Same as music. And fiction," he smiled and took his sandwich, taking another bite.
There was a moment's silence as he ate, thinking about the crowd. "I don't mind the crowd. It's comforting to...have people around. I just don't know anyone here yet, not really. So sitting here alone might not have been my best idea. I just didn't want to go to my quarters or the mess. This place is unique. I like it looks different. The bars are the one place Starfleet adds a little individuality. All about what they want to project. Like here...it's clearly for socialising, for...having fun. Some bars are more...cerebral," he considered the word, liking it. "As if it is for discussion of deep topics rather than...this."
Mateo’s gaze flicked toward Vansen’s sandwich, tracking the small bite he took. It wasn’t anything particularly eye-catching—no bold seasoning, no obvious complexity—just a sandwich.
"That looks... intriguing. What's inside it?" he asked, tilting his head slightly. The curiosity in his tone was subtle but genuine—not judgment, just interest.
As he waited for the answer, his attention drifted back to his own plate. The contrast was obvious—one careful, one indulgent.
“If you love spice,” Mateo said, holding out a hand, palm up, in an unspoken ask for Vansen’s plate. His expression remained neutral, not expectant, just offering.
Whether Vansen obliged or not, Mateo simply waited a beat before pivoting to his own plate, slicing through the bondiola with ease. The slow-cooked pork yielded effortlessly under the pressure of his fork, a sheen of oil from the chimichurri pooling beneath the cut. Bright flecks of garlic, oregano, and parsley caught the dim lighting, while the ají molido promised heat that wouldn’t overwhelm—just build, slow and steady, leaving warmth in its wake.
Without waiting for a response, Mateo began portioning out a serving, setting it aside in case Vansen wanted to try it. A small, practical gesture—not an assumption, not a push, just an option.
Satisfied, he leaned back slightly, rolling his shoulders, letting himself settle just a fraction more into the moment.
He could still feel the weight of the crowd pressing around him. The overlapping voices, the shifting bodies, the low hum of bass reverberating through the floorboards—it was all too much, too loud. Not in a way that hurt, but in a way that made everything blur together. Conversations bled into each other, indistinct and frustratingly out of reach.
And then there was the problem of space—nowhere to retreat, nowhere to escape the possibility of accidental touch. It wasn’t that he was claustrophobic. He just… preferred distance.
“I don’t mind being by myself,” he admitted after a beat, reaching for his drink. “But when places like this are too packed, it’s less people-watching, more sensory overload.”
He took a slow sip, letting the familiar taste of cola ground him, then set the glass back down with deliberate care.
He hadn’t expected the shift in conversation, but at Vansen’s mention of music and fiction, something changed.
Mateo perked up slightly, tilting his head—not much, just enough that someone really paying attention would notice. “Music and fiction, huh?”
It wasn’t just polite acknowledgment—it was real interest, something closer to familiarity.
Fiction had always been his escape, music his constant anchor. Even now, even here, those things belonged to him. His library of romance novels, carefully curated for indulgence and comfort, existed as a quiet secret. His music collection, once a physical thing he could hold in his hands, now lived in the safe confines of his digital archive.
He lived vicariously through stories, through lyrics and melodies that spoke louder than real conversations ever did.
“So,” he said, leaning forward just a little now, voice still measured but carrying a thread of something just shy of personal, “what’s the first song or book that made you stop and actually feel something?”
Constantin reached out to try the offered food, putting it in his mouth...and a soft moan escaped at the punch of flavour. He covered his mouth with his hand, chewing as he considered it for a moment. "I...mine's cheese and tomato and pesto. Nowhere as good as that," he said with awe.
The question about music caught his attention. And books. "I..." he looked down, considering it. "I don't remember the name of the song, or even what it sounded like. It was the first time I heard music and it...it made me cry. It was beautiful. Sounds put together. As for the book? I...it was The Hobbit. I was given it at Starfleet Medical."
Mateo arched a brow as Vansen took a bite, watching the moment of pure, unfiltered bliss unfold in real-time. The soft moan, the way he instinctively covered his mouth, the barest hint of awe in his expression—it wasn’t performative. It was honest.
And for some reason, heat crept up the back of Mateo’s neck.
That was new.
He wasn’t used to being the reason for someone’s enjoyment. Annoyance? Absolutely. Frustration? All the time. But pleasure? That wasn’t something people usually associated with him.
And yet—here was Vansen, savoring a piece of home that Mateo had offered.
It wasn’t a feeling he was used to. But as unfamiliar as it was… he didn’t think he minded it.
Mateo exhaled through his nose, pushing past the unexpected warmth as he reached for his drink. “Didn’t expect that kind of reaction,” he said, tone dry but not dismissive. His lips quirked, just barely. “Guess I’ll take that as a good review.”
A pause, then—almost as an afterthought: “Mateo, by the way—Medical Sciences.” It wasn’t much, but it was something.
He ate as he listened, balancing conversation with the ingrained etiquette drilled into him since childhood. Renata had been a stickler for table manners, and it showed—no wasted motion, no unnecessary hesitation. His fork slid through the bondiola with practiced ease, his movements careful, deliberate.
But as Vansen spoke, Mateo slowed, his curiosity overtaking the need for sustenance.
First time you heard music… and it made you cry?
That was something.
Mateo had grown up drenched in music. It had always been there, filling his space, woven into his routine, sometimes blasting so loudly that security had been called to shut it down. The idea that someone could reach adulthood without it—without knowing what it felt like—was almost inconceivable.
His fingers tapped lightly against the side of his glass as he considered the best way to phrase it.
“How old were you?”
The Hobbit. Starfleet Medical.
His gaze flicked toward Vansen, studying him—not in a way that felt invasive, but in the way someone does when they’re genuinely interested in the answer.
"Starfleet Medical? What happened?"
It was a direct question, but not unkind.
Mateo wasn’t just making conversation. He wanted to know.
"16," Vansen said as he looked at him, giving him a small smile before he let out a breath. It was a story, alright. A weird one, yet he was never really much for hiding it. The medication meant he couldn't hide it. Every officer he served with knew, so why not this science crewman. "I was born on a civilian ship...no gravity, no music, no fiction. Just..." he shrugged...or more, held his arms out to the side and move them. It was a shrug someone could see if you wore an EVA suit. One of the older, clunkier ones. "My parents, a lot of old manuals for the ship, recycled water and air...and nutrient bars. No space for anything that didn't earn its keep. Made a lot of things a new experience for me when Starfleet found me."
Such as the taste of real food, music, literature, holodecks, history, culture...and the bad side, Standard Earth 1 G that without the medication makes it feel like I am being crushed and, if I stay off it too long, will lead me to having a stroke.
"Spent a few years at Starfleet Medical," he added, with a small shrug. "In patient, and then...check ups."
Mateo sat with that for a moment, turning it over in his head. Sixteen. Sixteen, and that was the first time Vansen heard music? The first time he knew what it was to feel it?
A comfortable silence settled between them, the low hum of conversation and clinking glasses filling the space. Mateo didn’t rush to respond. He didn’t deflect with sarcasm, didn’t fill the quiet just to keep it moving.
He was thinking.
It was a bizarre contrast to Mateo’s own reality. He had been raised in a world where music was as constant as breath, woven into his daily existence. He couldn’t remember the first song he ever heard—there had never been a “first” because it had always been there.
But if he reached back far enough, there was one melody that stood out.
"Canción de cuna para dormir a un negrito."
His mother used to hum it at night, her voice a gentle presence in the dim glow of their home. Soft, slow, full of warmth, carrying the cadence of something older than either of them.
He had been a restless child—wild, untamed, full of chaos and raw emotion—and yet, this song had been the one thing that could settle him. No matter how much energy buzzed beneath his skin, no matter how stubbornly he refused to sleep, when that melody drifted through the walls, something in him eased.
It was a sound of safety. Of home.
And Vansen had never had that.
Mateo blinked, his fingers tapping idly against the side of his glass, letting the weight of that realization settle before speaking.
“Sixteen…” His voice was even, measured, but there was something contemplative in it. “Do you remember what song it was?”
A pause, then, quieter but no less certain—“What about it made you cry?”
His gaze flicked toward Vansen’s hands, tracking the motion of his arms as he mimicked a shrug. Not casual. Not careless. The movement had precision to it, something practiced, something learned. A gesture shaped by necessity, not instinct.
His fingers stilled against the glass.
“No music. No fiction. Just survival.” He said it more to himself than anything, like he was trying to wrap his head around it. His gaze lifted to Vansen, searching, and for a moment, he didn’t have anything clever or sarcastic to offer.
Just quiet intrigue. A little awe.
That’s… a lot.
He didn’t say it outright, but it was there in the slight shift of his expression, the subtle furrow of his brow.
And then—gravity.
Mateo knew the science behind it, understood the effects of prolonged weightlessness on bone density, cardiovascular function, intracranial pressure. He had studied it as an abstract concept, something theoretical, something that existed in case studies and medical files.
But now, sitting across from him, was the reality of it.
Vansen hadn’t just been raised in space. He had never known anything but zero gravity. His body had been shaped by it, dependent on it, and stepping into Standard Earth Gravity must have been like being forced into a world that was never meant for him.
Not just the discovery of new things—music, food, stories, history—but the cost of it.
The weight of a world that was never his.
Mateo’s fingers curled slightly against the edge of his plate.
“Every day?” he asked, and for the first time, his tone shifted. Less curiosity, more calculation. His mind was already cataloging the implications. The strain. A stroke. A body not built for its own environment.
He didn’t even realize he was subtly assessing Vansen, not in a way that would be obvious—just a quick, automatic check for tension, discomfort, anything off.
And then, Starfleet Medical.
Mateo set his fork down, fingers curling loosely around it as his mind turned that over.
Vansen hadn’t just been a patient.
He had spent years there. Not just in treatment—but in forced adaptation.
His gaze flicked to Vansen again, studying him—not in a way that felt invasive, but in the way someone does when they’re genuinely interested in the answer.
"You said you spent years at Starfleet Medical. Was that… just for gravity adaptation?"
Vansen chuckled at the questions, taking his drink to sip. He wasn't sure where to begin, just because there was...a lot. "I don't know the song. I didn't understand the language...I just knew it was beautiful," he admitted and sat back. He didn't want to eat any more, but had no problem continuing the conversation.
It did feel strange to talk about it though. It wasn't something he usually did. It was referred to, but no one asked him about his experience of it.
"It was...a lot of treatments. And education," he said as he looked at him, giving him a small smile as he raised an eyebrow. "I could read and write, and programme, and repair a rust bucket...but not anything about the Federation, or the history, or the culture I was meant to be from. It took some years to...be able to go outside and not faint at seeing the horizon."
Mateo’s fingers curled loosely around his glass as he listened, letting Vansen’s words settle in the quiet between them.
A song in a language he didn’t know, yet it still reached him.
That was music. It didn’t need translation.
Mateo exhaled softly, the corner of his mouth twitching in something not quite a smile. “But you still felt it,” he said, quiet, almost reverent. “Even when you didn’t know the words.”
Music was like that. It got inside you, whether you wanted it to or not.
He thought about the lullaby his mother used to hum when he was young. Soft, slow, patient. He never remembered the words, only the feeling of it. A sound that wrapped around him, turning the restless weight inside him into something quiet.
He wondered what the song had felt like to Vansen. If it had wrapped around him the same way. If it had made him feel less alone.
But he didn’t ask.
Instead, he studied the way Vansen hesitated.
This wasn’t something he talked about often. Maybe no one had ever asked. Maybe they didn’t think to.
Most people probably saw the uniform, the rank, the competence and assumed he had always belonged. But the way Vansen spoke now—carefully, like he was unpacking something rarely touched—suggested otherwise.
Mateo let that settle before speaking.
His fingers stilled against the glass as Vansen continued.
That… hit differently.
Vansen wasn’t just talking about medical treatment. He wasn’t just talking about adjusting physically. He was talking about becoming something. Someone he hadn’t been before.
And Mateo understood that feeling. Too well.
There were moments—entire years, really—where Mateo had felt like an outsider in his own life. The Federation had its rules, its order, its expectations. But Mateo had never really fit the mold. Even now, he wasn’t sure if he did.
And yet, he had always known Starfleet. Always known its history, its customs, its culture. Vansen hadn’t even had that. He had been dropped into a system that was supposed to be his, but he had never been part of it.
Mateo exhaled softly, tapping his fingers against the table. “That… makes sense.” He didn’t elaborate on why, didn’t say I get it—because their experiences weren’t the same. But there was something in his tone that suggested understanding, even if the details were different.
His head tilted slightly. “You didn’t just have to adjust physically. You had to become a part of a world that never made room for you in the first place.”
That was something Starfleet never talked about. The cost of assimilation. The expectation that you’d just adapt, absorb, and belong.
Mateo glanced down at his plate, idly nudging a piece of food with his fork before his gaze flicked back to Vansen.
He blinked, picturing it—Vansen stepping outside for the first time, confronted with a sky that had no ceiling. A world that wasn’t contained within bulkheads and artificial gravity plating.
His mind flicked back to a medical journal he had read years ago, an article on vestibular dysfunction in long-term zero-G subjects. The human brain wasn’t built to go from microgravity to planetary-scale visuals without an adjustment period. Some patients experienced vertigo so extreme that their bodies collapsed under them, overwhelmed by a perspective they had never been meant to comprehend.
That must have been what happened to Vansen.
Mateo huffed softly, shaking his head just slightly. “Your brain wasn’t wired for it.”
He lifted his glass, taking a slow sip. “That’s one hell of a first day outside.”
[OFF - To be continued in Part 3]
Crewman Mateo Gardel
Medical Science Specialist
USS Fenrir
&
Petty Officer Constantin Vansen
Operations Officer
USS Fenrir
[PNPC - Hanlon]
RSS Feed