Page 12 of Discordant Cultivation

Vale waited until Kieran finished packing his equipment, then crossed the street. He wanted to be close enough to see the exact moment recognition hit, close enough to catalog every micro-expression that flickered across those sharp, beautiful features.

Kieran looked up and saw him.

The guitar case slipped from his stiffening fingers and hit the pavement with a discordant crash of metal and wood. Kieran’s face drained of color—white, then gray, then something beyond pale entirely. His eyes rolled up and Vale saw the light in them blink off.

Oh.

Kieran’s body went rigid, then began the violent dance of neurons misfiring in cascading patterns. His head struck the sidewalk with a sound that made pedestrians gasp and pull out phones.

Vale was kneeling beside him before conscious thought caught up with him. He shrugged out of his jacket, folded it quickly, and slid it beneath Kieran’s head before lifting him into his lap.

See? I know how to take care of you. Better than you take care of yourself.

But even as he performed the theater of a concerned citizen, Vale’s hands moved with tenderness. The way Kieran’s dark hair fanned across his forearm, the soft puff of breath against his wrist, the absolute vulnerability of unconsciousness—all those little details screamed at him “remember this moment, it matters.”

Kieran’s weight against his thighs felt perfect, almost inevitable. Vale’s free hand moved to steady Kieran’s head,fingers threading through dark hair with a gentleness he didn’t know he possessed.

“Does anyone know if he has emergency medication?” Vale asked, though his hands were already moving to check Kieran’s jacket pocket. His fingers found what he was looking for—a small nasal spray labeled Versed.

Vale administered the dose, watching as Kieran’s breathing deepened into something beyond natural unconsciousness. The medication would keep him sedated for hours. Peaceful. Manageable. Safe from the stress that triggered his episode.

And mine. For hours, you’ll be mine without fear or running or questions.

Someone had already called 911. Vale could hear sirens in the distance, approaching with an urgency that would ruin everything. He needed to move, to establish control before authority figures arrived with their protocols and their questions.

“I’m his manager,” Vale said to the small crowd that had gathered, keeping his voice calm and authoritative. “I’ll make sure he gets proper care.”

No one questioned it. Why would they? Vale looked responsible, successful, like exactly the kind of person who should be taking charge in an emergency. And Kieran looked like the kind of person who needed someone to take charge.

“The ambulance is coming,” someone said helpfully.

“He doesn’t have insurance,” Vale replied, already lifting Kieran’s unconscious form from his lap. “I’ll take him to his regular doctor.”

It was amazing how easily people accepted authority when it was performed correctly. No one demanded identification. No one asked for proof of relationship. They simply helped—gathering Kieran’s scattered belongings, muttering about howexpensive the ambulance would have been, and expressing relief that the poor musician had someone to look after him.

Such good Samaritans, making this so easy.

Vale carried Kieran to the car he’d kept parked nearby—just in case, though he hadn’t consciously admitted to himself why he’d been parking so close to the station every day. Kieran’s weight settled against his chest like something that had always belonged there, his head lolling against Vale’s shoulder with the complete trust that unconsciousness provided.

He drove toward his farmhouse with Kieran breathing softly in the passenger seat. Unconscious, he looked even younger, more fragile. Like something that needed protection from a world too harsh for artists who felt everything too deeply.

Don’t worry, beautiful boy. I’m going to take such good care of you.

The seizure was a gift wrapped in medical necessity. Now there would be no interruptions, no anxiety-driven escapes, no barriers between Kieran and the education he so desperately needed.

The greenhouse came into view as Vale turned into his property’s long driveway. He should check on the roses soon and tend to his mother’s legacy, to the white blooms that were suffering from his neglect.

But first, he needed to get Kieran settled. He needed to set up the bedroom that would become his new home, to prepare everything for when those brown eyes opened and found themselves somewhere new, somewhere better, somewhere they could finally stop running.

Tomorrow we’ll try again. And the day after that. And every day until you understand that hiding from me is impossible.

Vale smiled as he parked the car, already planning the careful steps of Kieran’s transformation from frightened street musician to something extraordinary.

We’re going to make beautiful music together, Kieran. Whether you want to or not.

5

My mind reminds me that my mind's been hurt before…