Page 121 of Discordant Cultivation

“Can you give us a hint about what those lighter tracks might sound like?”

Kieran smiled, and for a moment it felt almost genuine.

The interview wrapped up with the standard pleasantries. Kieran smiled and nodded through the fog, but everything was muffled, like experiencing the world through thick glass.

As soon as Vale turned off the recording equipment, his entire demeanor shifted. He wrenched off the mask, his fingers finding Kieran’s wrist to check his pulse, his other hand lifting his chin.

“How many fingers?” Vale asked, holding up his hand.

“Three,” Kieran mumbled, though focusing felt increasingly difficult.

Vale’s fingers moved to remove the gauze from around Kieran’s throat. “Any tingling? Metallic taste still?”

“Little b-bit.” He felt so tired. That interview could have been twenty minutes or eight hours. He wasn’t sure. “Can I—can I go lay d-down for a little?”

“Of course. Come on.” Vale guided him back to the bedroom with careful hands, helping him settle onto the top sheet before sliding in beside him. The mattress dipped, and suddenly Kieran was being gathered into familiar arms, held against a chest that rose and fell with steady breathing.

Vale’s fingers moved through with those sweet, gentle touches that Kieran liked. In his hazy state, a dangerous warmth spread through Kieran’s chest—the kind of warmth that made him want to turn in Vale’s arms and press their lips together.

I want the comfort.

“Vale,” Kieran whispered as he turned over, pressing his forehead against Vale’s chest.

“Mmm?”

“Tell m-me something. Ab-about yourself. Anything.” His voice came out small. “I don’t w-want to feel like I’m sharing a bed with a st-stranger.”

He felt Vale’s breathing change, tension creeping into the arms that held him. Kieran pressed further against Vale’s body, feeling the unmistakable evidence of arousal against his groin. But Vale wasn’t pushing, wasn’t demanding. He just kept holding Kieran.

“Please,” Kieran mumbled, too exhausted to filter his desperation. “T-tell me something real. I’m s-s-so lonely with just me in my head.”

“I started piano when I was four,” Vale said softly, his fingers continuing their gentle movement through Kieran’s hair. “My parents were both classical musicians and doctors. They had me performing before I could tie my shoes properly.”

Kieran closed his eyes, letting Vale’s voice wash over him.

“I was good at it,” Vale continued, his voice distant. “Exceptionally good. But good wasn’t enough for them. Perfect technique, perfect memorization, perfect emotional expression on command—that’s what they wanted.”

“Did you like it?” Kieran asked quietly.

Vale’s hand stilled in his hair for a moment. “I love music. But I learned very early that loving something and being forced to perfect it aren’t compatible. They broke every natural impulse I had and rebuilt them into something that could win awards.”

“So when did you stop performing?”

“When I realized I could create something more beautiful by finding artists who still had their natural impulses intact,” Vale said, his lips brushing against Kieran’s temple. “Artists who needed guidance to reach their potential.”

The implication hung heavy, but in his exhausted state, Kieran found he didn’t care. All he cared about was the warmth of being held and the comfort of not being alone in his post-ictal haze.

At least you’re telling me something real.

Kieran shifted in Vale’s arms, tilting his head back to look up at him. Vale’s expression was soft, almost vulnerable. Without thinking too hard about it—without letting fear override the wanting—Kieran pressed his lips to Vale’s.

This is safe.

Kissing is safe.

37

You ARE the suffering, you ARE the violence, and the chaos that the silence brings…