Page 13 of Discordant Cultivation

Kieran

Consciousness arrived in fragments, each piece sharp enough to cut. Kieran’s skull felt like it had been cracked open and reassembled wrong, every pulse of his heartbeat sending shockwaves through bone and tissue. His mouth tasted like copper and pharmaceutical bitterness—the familiar aftermath of rescue medication mixed with something else he couldn’t identify.

Post-ictal fog. That’s what the doctors called it. Kieran called it “my brain is scrambled eggs and I might throw up on you.”

Where am I?

The bed underneath him was too soft.

This isn’t my apartment.

The memory came in flashes: Vale’s face appearing across the street. The guitar case slipping.Oh fuck, not here, not now— Then nothing. The blank space where consciousness should have been was that terrifying gap that meant his brain betrayed him again.

Kieran forced his eyes open despite the way the light felt like needles driving into his brain. Exposed wooden beams crossed avaulted ceiling. Windows draped in fabric that filtered morning sun into something golden and warm. His guitar case leaned against a wall beside a dresser made of actual wood instead of particle board.

Not a hospital. Hospitals had fluorescent lights and that specific smell of antiseptic and despair. This smelled like... candles? Wood polish? Something that suggested money and taste, and absolutely not a place Kieran should be.

What the hell?

He tried to sit up and immediately regretted the decision. His vision swam, his stomach lurching with the kind of nausea that meant his brain was still mushy from the seizure and rescue medicine. The bitten tongue, the muscle aches, the fog that made thinking feel like walking through quicksand—all familiar territory.

But everything else was wrong.

Kieran’s hands went to his clothes, checking—he was still dressed, but not in what he’d been wearing. Instead of his Goodwill jeans and shirt, he wore soft cotton pajamas that fit him perfectly. Navy blue, soft and smooth like silk, the kind of thing he saw in department store windows and never imagined owning.

Someone undressed me.

The thought sent ice water through his veins, clearing some of the fog with pure adrenaline. Someone removed his clothes while he was unconscious.

A soft knock interrupted his growing panic. “Kieran? Are you awake?”

Vale’s voice, warm and concerned, came from the other side of a door that suddenly felt like the most important barrier in the world.

Oh no. Oh fuck. This is Vale’s house.

“I’m coming in,” Vale said, and the door opened before Kieran could respond.

Vale entered carrying a tray—water, pills in a small cup, and what looked like toast cut into triangles. He wore casual clothes instead of the professional attire Kieran had seen him in, looking comfortable and at home in this space that definitely wasn’t a hospital or a studio or anywhere Kieran had agreed to be.

“How are you feeling?” Vale asked, setting the tray on a bedside table. “You gave me quite a scare.”

“W-where am I?” The words came out as a croak, his throat raw like he’d been screaming. Maybe he had been.

“My house. About two hours outside the city.” Vale sat on the edge of the bed without invitation, close enough that Kieran could smell his cologne again. “You had a tonic-clonic seizure outside the train station and hit your head when you fell. I couldn’t leave you there.”

Flashes of memory: the pavement rushing up. The sick feeling of losing control of his own body. Darkness.

“I need to g-go home.”

“You need to rest. The medication is still working through your system, and head trauma after seizures can be serious.” Vale picked up the water glass and held it out like an offering. “Drink this first.”

Kieran accepted the water because his mouth felt like sand, but his hands shook as he lifted the glass.

This is wrong. This is so wrong.

“My clothes—”

“I had to change you. You were soaked from lying on wet pavement.” Vale’s tone remained pleasant. “Everything’s been cleaned. Your guitar too—no damage.”