Page 115 of Discordant Cultivation

Kieran’s fingers stilled on the strings, eyes flicking between Vale and the laptop. “D-do I have to watch it?”

He’s still afraid of seeing himself through other people’s eyes.

“Yes,” Vale said simply, patting the cushion beside him. “You need to understand their perspective before the interview.”

Kieran’s reluctance was visible in every line of his body, but he moved toward Vale anyway, settling against his side. Vale’s arm came around him automatically, holding him steady.

But as the reaction video began playing with an over enthusiastic animated intro—Vale noticed his hand moving to his mouth, a habit growing increasingly frequent over the past few days.

Vale caught Kieran’s wrist gently, examining his fingernails chewed down to painful-looking nubs. Several showed signs of recent bleeding, his cuticles torn and inflamed from compulsive anxious picking.

“Sweetheart,” Vale said softly, his thumb tracing over damaged skin. “When did this start?”

Kieran flushed, trying to pull his hand back. “It’s n-nothing. Just... n-nervous habit.”

The timing of it lined up with when they started around recording the album—all that sustained emotional exposure required for each take must have left him searching for release in small acts of violence against himself. His coping mechanisms were adapting, evolving, finding outlets that didn’t require permission.

“We’ll need to address this,” Vale said, releasing Kieran’s hand while filing the behavior away for closer monitoring. “But first, let’s finish watching their reactions. You need to understand their perspective before the interview.”

The video continued, commentary ranging from genuine appreciation to an uncomfortable fascination with what they perceived as Kieran’s mysterious vulnerability. Vale watched Kieran’s expression grow increasingly tense as the reviewers dissected his performances.

“They d-don’t understand,” Kieran said solemnly.

“They don’t need to understand,” Vale replied. “They just need to be entertained. Your job is to give them enough to satisfy their curiosity without revealing anything that could be used against us.”

When Vale reached for the gauze wrappings they’d need for Kieran’s on-camera appearance, he felt his boy’s entire body go rigid with anticipatory terror. Kieran’s breathing became shallow and rapid—a panic response turning the interview from opportunity into painful exposure.

“I c-can’t do this.” Kieran shook his head. “What if they ask qu-questions I can’t answer? Wh-what if I say something wrong?”

“I’ll be right there with you,” Vale said softly, beginning the careful process of wrapping Kieran’s hands. “They wanted an interview with you and your pianist. I’ll be under the mask by your side.”

“Wh-what if they can tell something’s wrong with me?”

“I’ll deflect,” Vale said as he wound the gauze up Kieran’s exposed forearm. “I’ll talk about artistic processes and creative collaboration while Thorn looks beautiful and vulnerable.”

“I d-don’t want to be vul-vulnerable on camera,” Kieran said, panic edging into his voice. “I d-don’t want strangers analyzing me, picking apart everything I say.”

Vale’s hands stilled on the gauze, recognizing the edge of a full anxiety spiral. “Sweetheart, breathe with me. They’re not going to hurt you. I won’t let them.” He placed his hand over Kieran’s throat, applying the lightest pressure he could, just to let Kieran feel his presence there.

Kieran’s eyes fluttered shut as he took a shaky breath in through his nose, releasing it slowly through his mouth as he leaned into Vale’s touch.

There’s my good boy.

Vale watched Kieran on the laptop screen, noting the way his shoulders held tension threatening to escalate into visible panic. He still looked ethereal under the soft lighting he arranged, wrapped and vulnerable, but Vale could see the rapid pulse at his throat where the wrapping didn’t quite cover and the way his hands trembled in his lap out of view of the camera.

“This won’t go in the video, but I’m sorry, I don’t have anything written down for the name of your pianist, Thorn,” the female host, Marissa, began.

Vale had planned to call himself “Thorn’s Backup”, hidden under his mask, only seen as support and brought out when needed—

“Bloom,” Kieran said softly, still staring wide eyed at Marissa on the screen, looking too frightened to move.

Bloom. As if they were two halves of the same flower. Thorn and Bloom intertwined, each necessary for the other’s existence. The poetry of it was almost painful in its perfection.

He named us. Named what we’ve become together.

“Thorn and Bloom? That’s sick,” the co-host, a small-time indie rapper who went by the stage name RedEye, said.

“Okay, let’s get started!” Marissa launched into an intro, the ring light reflected in her eyes in that sort of eerie, manic way that people seemed to love for some reason. “Thorn and Bloom, thank you both so much for joining us. Your music has been absolutely everywhere—‘PoisonSaviors’ gave us actual chills.”