Page 10 of Discordant Cultivation

“It’s late. This isn’t the safest neighborhood.”

Safer than staying here.

“I’m f-fine. Really. Thank you again. For everything.”

Vale walked him to the studio door, his brow furrowed and his mouth forming the smallest pout. “Call me tomorrow. We can try again when you’re feeling more comfortable.”

Kieran nodded without meaning it, pushed out into the alley, and walked as fast as he could without running.

Three blocks away, he finally let himself stop and breathe.

What the hell was that?

His phone buzzed in his pocket:

Vale Rose – Producer

Get home safe. Looking forward to our next session.

-V

Kieran deleted the message and started walking toward the train station, each step away from the studio feeling like escaping something he didn’t have words for yet.

4

Studio's a labyrinth and he's got all the keys…

Vale

The studio felt hollow after Kieran fled, acoustic foam soaking up the silence where his voice had been. Vale stood in the recording booth for twenty minutes, breathing air that still held traces of panic and possibility, analyzing what had gone wrong.

Too fast. Too eager.

He’d moved like an amateur, letting his hunger show before properly conditioning the response. Kieran’s body had been ready—Vale had felt the way his breathing changed, the subtle lean into touch before conscious thought kicked in—but his mind hadn’t been prepared for the physicality that creating real art required.

But those few seconds when Kieran allowed the touch, before fear overrode instinct—that had been real. That had been the body responding honestly before the mind could lie about what it wanted.

Next time.

Vale deleted the recording from the system. Not because it wasn’t beautiful—it was devastating, raw in ways that made his chest ache—but because Kieran would need to earn the use ofhis equipment again. The boy had to understand that running had consequences, that opportunities like this didn’t wait for squeamish hesitation.

Let him think about what he lost.

He stood in the empty booth for another moment, his fingers tracing the chair where Kieran sat. The space still held warmth, the impression of a body that had been here moments ago. Vale’s hand moved to where he’d touched Kieran’s stomach on himself, remembering the rapid flutter of breath, the tension that felt so promising before everything went wrong.

I should have built more foundation before showing you what we could become together.

But gentleness had never been Vale’s strength. His mother taught him that art required ruthless pruning, that beauty only emerged through pressure. The roses in his greenhouse didn’t bloom because he coddled them—they bloomed because he knew exactly when to cut, when to starve, when to force growth in directions they wouldn’t naturally choose.

Kieran would be the same. He just needed the right approach.

Day one, Vale took his usual train to the office, walking past Kieran’s corner outside the station, walking slower just to make sure he wouldn’t miss the nervous guitarist. The spot remained empty. Just commuters and tourists flowing around the space where something extraordinaryhadbeen building itself into existence.

By lunch, he’d checked three times.

Day two, he canceled his meetings. He stood across the street from the station for forty-three minutes, watching different buskers cycle through Kieran’s spot. There was a woman with a violin who played like she was auditioning for wedding receptions, and two teenagers with acoustic guitars who giggled through folk covers. None of them understood the weight that music could carry, the way pain could transform sound into something that burrowed inside listeners and nestled there permanently.

Where are you, beautiful boy?