Page 116 of Discordant Cultivation

“Thank you for having us,” Vale said, modulating his voice through the mesh mask to sound more neutral, less identifiable. Kieran managed a nod, but no words emerged. Vale watched him swallow hard, his Adam’s apple moving beneath gauze.

Say something, beautiful boy. They’re waiting.

“Thorn’s a little nervous,” Vale said smoothly, buying time. “This is new territory for him—this is his first interview.”

“Aw, I’m so glad we get to be the first ones to interview you! I’m so curious about the collaborative process, Bloom. Did you only assist on‘Library Card’, or do you do more behind the scenes of Thorn’s solo videos? What’s the creative dynamic like?”

Vale felt Kieran’s hand brush against his beneath the table, his fingers seeking contact with desperate need. The touch was hidden from the camera but sent warmth flooding through him—his broken boy still reaching for him when fear became overwhelming.

“I do very little,” Vale said, letting his fingers intertwine with Kieran’s. “I handle the technical aspects mostly, making sure we have the right set up, mixing, the boring stuff. Thorn is pure artistry—he writes all the music, all the lyrics, he comes up with everything that matters.”

Kieran’s grip tightened on his hand. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft but clear: “Bl-Bloom sees things in m-m-my music that I don’t always see. He helps me...”

Good boy. Describing our methods without revealing anything that could be used against us.

“The guitar work in ‘Library Card’ was incredible,“ Marissa said. “The use of books as punctuated percussion was so, so creative, and correct me if I’m wrong, but that looked like it was all done in one take, correct? How many times did you run through the song to get that timing right?”

Kieran’s posture shifted, just slightly. “It was one t-take, yes. W-we got lucky that day, the f-first take w-was the only one we needed,” he said. A little smile formed on his face.

“Seriously? No way!”

“I keep telling you, M, this kid has, like, a metronome in his head. You can hear it in the bridge in ‘Poison Saviors’,“ RedEye interjected, playing up some dynamic that established their channel. He focused his attention on the camera. “Seriously dude, the way you deliver that part, ‘Tick tock, heart stop, paranoia never ends‘, I’ll straight up start mumbling it while cleaning my house.”

Kieran let out a little laugh and blushed. “Yeah, it’s, um, th-this idea of vocals as per-percussion. Most people like vocals to fit with the m-melody of the instrum-ments. I l-like to think of vocals as a part of the b-beat.”

Pride surged through Vale watching Kieran find his footing. This was the artist he’d always known lived beneaththe protective barriers, intellectualizing his own authenticity without compromising the mystery that made him compelling.

Look at you, speaking about your art with confidence. This is what you were always meant to do.

“The acoustic elements are fascinating too,” Marissa added. “Very intimate, almost confessional. Where do you record?”

Vale felt Kieran’s hand tense in his.

“We prefer solitary spaces,” Vale said, stroking Kieran’s knuckles beneath the table. “Environments where emotional honesty feels safe. Big studios can make vulnerability feel performative rather than authentic.”

The conversation flowed more naturally after that, with Kieran growing visibly more comfortable as they discussed musical influences, songwriting process, the challenge of maintaining authenticity in an industry that rewarded manufactured emotion. Vale noted how Kieran’s voice strengthened when talking about his songwriting process, how the stutter eased slightly when passion overrode anxiety.

But then Marissa’s expression shifted, becoming more serious. “We have to address something that came up in comments on your ‘Temple of Flesh’ video. There was some speculation about... well, about whether the medical episode was real or performed for effect.”

Vale felt Kieran go rigid beside him, every muscle tensing, and his gaze dropped. But his hand remained steady in Kieran’s, his thumb continuing its soothing rhythm across his knuckles.

Breathe, sweetheart. This is your chance to set the record straight. Find your voice and use it.

The contact seemed to ground Kieran, his breathing evening out. When he looked directly into the camera, his eyes were bright with unshed tears.

“You pr-probably noticed I have a st-stutter,” Kieran said quietly, “b-but you haven’t mentioned it. P-people love to spec-c-culate about the interesting stuff, but ignore things like st-stuttering b-because it’s not... aesthetic.”

Vale’s heart clenched with fierce protectiveness as tears slid down Kieran’s cheeks, visible even through the careful shadows they’d arranged.

“I’ve h-had epilepsy since I was two,” Kieran continued, his voice gaining strength despite the tears. “It’s n-not art, it’s n-not aesthetic choice—it affects every aspect of m-my life. I-I shouldn’t have t-to publish my medical records for p-people to show c-compassion.”

The silence that followed was profound, both hosts visibly uncomfortable by the raw honesty in Kieran’s voice. Maybe they were expecting a deflection, or outright hostility. Vale squeezed his hand beneath the table, overwhelmed—pride at Kieran’s articulate self-advocacy, protective fury at the strangers who questioned his authenticity, and something deeper felt too large to process in the moment.

“I’m so sorry,” Marissa began. “That was thoughtless speculation, and you’re absolutely right—you shouldn’t have to defend legitimate medical conditions.”

Kieran nodded, wiping tears away with his free hand while maintaining his grip on Vale beneath the table. The vulnerability was devastating, and Vale knew this moment would reshape public perception of Thorn from mysterious artist to someone deserving protection.

The interview continued for another twenty minutes, but the energy had shifted completely. Both hosts treated Kieran with careful respect, focusing on his artistic process rather than probing for personal details that might cause additional pain.