Page 118 of Discordant Cultivation

Sometimes Vale was gentle in those dreams—tender touches, soft words, the gentle version of Vale making love to him like they were normal people in a normal relationship, like Kieran was someone who deserved kindness. Those dreams left him aching with a longing for something that couldn’t ever exist.

Sometimes the dreams were pure passion—nothing gentle, nothing violent, just desperate need and gasping want, Vale’s hands and mouth and the kind of pleasure that felt like being devoured. Those were the worst, because Kieran woke up hardand confused, hating his body for responding to fantasies about the person who’d broken him.

The song had started as an attempt to untangle the mess in his head. “Safe Distance”—an ironic title for lyrics about wanting to close the gap while being terrified of what would happen if he did.

“Sometimes I dream of melting into someone else’s warmth;

But my mind reminds me that my mind’s been hurt before…”

Every verse felt like a confession. Every line exposed thoughts Kieran couldn’t admit out loud—not to Vale, not even to himself. The wondering if his desire was real or just conditioning. The question of whether Vale’s affection was genuine or calculated manipulation. The shame of wanting someone who destroyed every boundary Kieran tried to maintain.

“But I don’t want to die inside this prison made of doubt;

Locked away from pleasure where the light don’t shine…”

He’d been working on it for days, sneaking time when Vale was occupied, writing and crossing out and rewriting until the pages looked like a war zone. Trying to figure out if “wanting it” even meant anything when every desire had been shaped by months of lessons designed to break him.

Is there real affection between us? Or am I misinterpreting control as care, possession as love?

The notebook stayed pressed against his chest every night because he knew what would happen if Vale found it. The same thing that happened last time—gentle manipulation disguised as concern, boundary crossing framed as an intimacy lesson, Kieran’s private thoughts weaponized against him.

But on the sixth morning, Kieran reached for his notebook the instant he woke—the familiar weight against his chest, the one private space where he could work through contradictions without having to explain them.

His hand found only empty sheets.

No.

Panic shot through him like electricity, jolting him fully awake to find Vale sitting on the edge of the bed, spiral-bound pages spread across his lap. Morning light caught the angles of his face as he read, his expression soft but with calculation lurking beneath—like satisfaction barely concealed behind affection.

“Give it b-back.” The words came out strangled, desperate, as Kieran scrambled upright in bed. “That’s—that’s private, you c-can’t just—”

He lunged for the notebook, his hands shaking with adrenaline and humiliation, but Vale’s reflexes were faster. One palm pressed against Kieran’s chest, pushing him back toward the headboard.

“Careful,” Vale said, not even looking up from the pages. “You don’t want to damage something this special.”

Oh god, he knows. He knows what I’ve been writing.

“P-please,” Kieran whispered, throat tight. “I wasn’t—those aren’t f-finished. They’re just fragments, they d-don’t mean anything.”

“Don’t they?” Vale’s thumb traced the edge of a page, and the reverence in the gesture felt predatory rather than respectful.“Some of your best work is in here, Kier. Raw, honest. Exactly the kind of vulnerability I’ve been waiting to see from you.”

Waiting. Like he knew this would happen eventually.

“This one particularly caught my attention.” Vale turned the notebook around with a deliberate slowness, revealing the chaotic page Kieran hoped would remain illegible. “‘Safe Distance’. Tell me about this song, sweetheart.”

Kieran’s gaze landed on the verses about fear and need, about being caught between longing and terror, about wanting things his mind couldn’t accept. Heat flooded his cheeks as he stared at his own words—thoughts he’d tried to exorcise by writing them down, proof that his brain was wired wrong.

“I d-don’t know,” Kieran said, and part of it felt true. “It’s n-nothing. Just—random words that d-don’t go anywhere.”

“Random words.” Vale’s expression was fond, patient.

“Yes. They d-don’t mean anything sp-specific.”

“Hmm.” Vale closed the notebook and set it aside. “That’s disappointing, Kier. I was hoping you’d developed enough trust to be honest with me by now.”

Vale’s hand found Kieran’s throat—not threatening, just intimate, the way he touched during their quiet moments together—pulse beneath his thumb, windpipe beneath his palm, a declaration of affection rather than menace.

“Let me ask you again,” Vale began, “what is this song about?”