Page 127 of Discordant Cultivation

The collar was off, gauze wrapped around his neck and torso in the familiar Thorn aesthetic. His Martin D-41 rested across his lap, fingers finding comfortable positions on strings he’d learned to trust.

“The thing that blows my mind,” Lowe was saying, “is how you blend styles that shouldn’t work together. Like in ‘Temple of Flesh‘—you’re doing spoken word, then shifting into this almost operatic vocal line, all while maintaining guitar work that’s basically percussion. How do you even approach lyrics to that structurally?”

Kieran felt himself relax for the first time in days.

“Internal rhymes,” Kieran said, his confidence building as he warmed to the subject. “I love internal rhymes and d-double entendres because they let you p-pack multiple m-meanings into the same line, then you can ad-ad-adj—alter the vocals where y-you want without losing the core.”

“You have these incredible literary references too,” Lowe said. “Like, not just the religious language, but like the whole of ‘Wax Wings’ is an ode to Greek mythology. It made me look at the idea of Daedalus as someone sinister. Do you intentionally start a song by looking to literature?”

“I never got to go to c-college,” Kieran admitted. “I h-had to drop out of school at sixteen. Not because I was dumb—just n-necessity. So I read everything I could get my hands on and tried to educate myself through music and b-books.”

From his position off-camera, Vale watched with an expression Kieran couldn’t quite read.

“That self-education shows. The way you weave these concepts with slang and then use things we usually avoid, like inhales and clearing your throat—it creates this temporal collision that serves the emotional content. Plus the guitar work while doing all that is insane. Most people can barely walk and chew gum.”

Kieran laughed. “P-practice. Lots of practice. And embracing the fact that imperfection can be more interesting than technical p-perfection.”

They talked for another twenty minutes about rhythm patterns, about using stutters as deliberate stylistic choices, about the acoustic properties of different performance spaces. By the time Lowe thanked him and signed off, Kieran felt lighter than he had in weeks.

I can do this. I can be a real artist.

As soon as the stream ended, Vale was beside him, his hand finding the back of Kieran’s neck. “Perfect,” Vale beamed, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin behind Kieran’s ear.

He flinched at the initial contact—it seemed like an automatic response his body couldn’t unlearn—but then leaned into the touch, craving the approval that came with Vale’s gentle affection.

“I liked talking about that stuff,” Kieran said quietly. “Just the music, nothing else.”

“I could see that.” Vale’s fingers moved to stroke through his hair. “You light up when you discuss your process. It’s beautiful to watch.”

The compliment made Kieran’s cheeks warm with a feeling dangerously close to happiness. This was, for all intents and purposes, the best case scenario. Vale being kind, people liking his music enough to talk to him for almost an hour about it, and maybe when he finished the album, Vale would realize he didn’t have anything else to teach Kieran. No more lessons.

Maybe it can be gentle all the time.

Vale’s other hand found his chin, tilting his face up with gentle insistence. “If you can record a couple more songs in the next few days, I’ll take you out to a proper dinner. Somewhere you can order whatever you want instead of just picking at a salad.”

Like a date. Like we’re normal people who do normal things together.

“Really?” Hope bled through Kieran’s voice despite his attempts to stay guarded.

“Really.” Vale’s thumb traced his lower lip. “You’ve earned it, beautiful boy.”

Before Kieran could respond, Vale leaned down and captured his mouth in a kiss that tasted like coffee and promises. For a moment, Kieran’s body went rigid with muscle memory of things he’d rather forget.

It’s a kiss. Affection. It doesn’t have to mean anything more than this.

When Vale pulled away, he smiled. “Go work on your song. Take your time. No pressure.”

Kieran nodded, still tasting Vale’s mouth on his lips as he gathered his guitar and notebook.

I can make this work.

Sleep wouldn’t come.

Kieran lay in bed, staring at the ceiling while his mind circled endlessly around fragments of the song that refused to cohere into anything complete. Every time he closed his eyes, he felt it again. The terror. The pain. Thewant.

Think about something else. Anything else.

He slipped out of bed as quietly as possible, grabbing his notebook and padding barefoot toward the door. Vale’s breathing remained steady behind him, deep and even with sleep that seemed to come so easily to him—like someone who’d never learned to fear the dark.