Page 122 of Discordant Cultivation

Vale

Vale’s fingers moved across Kieran’s ribs like each bone was a key on an instrument that breathed and shivered beneath his touch. Kieran slept deeply in his arms, exhausted from the seizure and emotional crash that had followed their interview, trusting enough in his post-ictal vulnerability to seek his comfort.

It had been so easy. Too easy, perhaps, but Vale had learned to stop questioning gifts when they arrived wrapped in such perfect justification.

Kieran had kissed him twice, soft and curious, like he was trying to learn the shape of Vale’s mouth rather than seeking comfort from panic. And then he’d asked about Vale’s childhood, his parents, his music. He’d wanted toknowVale. Not the producer, not the teacher, not even the captor who held all the power—but Vale himself, the person beneath the careful construction.

That kind of intimacy was unprecedented. Revolutionary. It meant something.

So when Kieran had grown heavy-eyed and drowsy, still curled against Vale’s chest, undressing him seemed natural. Just for sleep, Vale told himself. Just to be comfortable. Kieran’s gauze had already been removed for the day, his collar back around his throat, so removing his remaining clothes was a kindness—letting him rest properly, skin-to-skin, the way lovers did.

Kieran hadn’t protested. He hadn’t even seemed fully conscious of what was happening as exhaustion dragged him under. He just made a soft sound and pressed closer when Vale stripped them both down to nothing, seeking warmth and comfort.

It means he trusts me. It means the walls are finally coming down.

And if Vale had spent half the night watching Kieran sleep, mapping the territory of his body with careful fingers, learning the landscape he’d soon claim completely—well, that was just preparation. Education required thorough planning, after all.

C major, D minor, back to C. The rhythm of your breathing, the way your body curves against mine—what would your song sound like if I could hear it instead of just reading fragments on torn pages?

The melody built itself in Vale’s mind as he traced slow patterns across warm skin, haunting and hesitant, capturing the beautiful contradiction Kieran had written about—fear and need tangled together until they became indistinguishable, want and terror sharing the same breath.

I want him to breathe with my lungs, to taste with my tongue, to know only my hands as his own.

This wasn’t about artistic development or unlocking Kieran’s creative potential. This was about possession so complete it transcended the physical—he wanted to live inside Kieran’s nervous system, to fill the spaces of the synapses between hisneurons, to become the voice in his head that told him what to feel and when to feel it.

He loved Kieran with every fiber of his being.

That truth writhed beneath his skin, like something hungry and desperate—he wanted Kieran’s mind, body, and soul with an intensity that made patience feel like torture.

How long can I make him believe this is about his artistry? I know the truth. When should I stop lying to him?

Kieran stirred against his chest. Vale felt the exact moment awareness dawned—the way Kieran’s breathing changed, the subtle tension that crept through muscles that had been relaxed in sleep.

“Good morning, beautiful boy,” Vale said softly into his hair.

Kieran’s head lifted, brown eyes blinking with confusion as he took in their states.

There it is. The panic.

“I—we’re—” Kieran’s voice cracked as he tried to pull away, tried to put distance between skin that had grown warm and familiar during the night.

Vale’s arm tightened around his waist, keeping Kieran pressed against his chest where he could feel the rapid flutter of a heartbeat that betrayed everything words would try to hide.

“Stay still,” Vale said quietly. “The next lesson is here, sweetheart. And you’re ready for it.”

Kieran’s breathing became shallow and rapid, the kind of hyperventilation that preceded his usual anxiety spirals, but he didn’t try to pull away again.

You know what I’m offering. Your song knows what I’m offering. The only question is whether you’ll let me help you finish it properly.

Vale shifted them slowly, rolling Kieran onto his back against the rumpled sheets, the morning light filtering through the curtains to paint golden stripes across their skin. He positionedhimself beside Kieran, one hand splayed possessively over Kieran’s chest, feeling the frantic rise and fall. “Your lyrics spoke of fearing intimacy,” Vale said softly, his voice a low melody. “Afraid of bodies—yours and mine, the way they speak truths your mind tries to silence. We’re going to touch that fear today and make it sing.”

Kieran’s breathing hitched, his eyes wide and panicked. “I d-don’t—this isn’t—”

“Shh.” Vale moved his hand up to trace the hollow of Kieran’s throat, feeling the pulse hammer beneath fragile skin. “You wrote about wanting this. About being terrified of wanting this. That’s what makes it special, sweetheart. The fear and the desire tangled together until you can’t tell which is which.”

“Those were j-just thoughts,” Kieran whispered, and Vale could hear the desperation in his voice—the need to believe his own categorization, to hold onto the artificial wall he’d built between safe intimacy and lesson territory. “I didn’t mean—”

“You meant every word.” Vale leaned closer, his lips brushing against Kieran’s temple as his hand slid lower, memorizing each peak and valley of his ribs and sternum, the raised scars from the glass he’d pressed into his own chest. “Your body knows what it wants even when your mind tries to lie about it. I can feel you trembling. Is it fear or anticipation? Can you even tell the difference anymore?”