Page 131 of Discordant Cultivation

Then—trembling hands reached up and wrapped around Vale’s wrist.

Guiding. Deliberately. Slowly.

To Kieran’s own throat.

Pressing Vale’s palm hard against his windpipe. Squeezing. The shaking in Kieran’s body started to ease. “P-please,” Kieran whispered. “I-I-I-I’m sorry.”

Vale’s breath stopped entirely.

Kieran was offering his throat, his pulse, his breath, and asking Vale to control it.

He loves me too.

“I forgive you, beautiful boy,” Vale whispered.

Kieran’s response was immediate and desperate—leaning forward to press their mouths together in a kiss that tasted likecopper and salt and submission. “I’m s-sorry,” he gasped against Vale’s lips, the words broken by sobs. “I’m sorry, I’m s-sorry—”

41

What began as gentle whispers grew to symphonies of hurt; Every cut a small reminder of exactly what he's worth…

Kieran

The guitar strings felt wrong beneath Kieran’s fingertips, too sharp and foreign despite years of calluses that should have made the contact familiar. He sat cross-legged on the living room floor, surrounded by crumpled pages and false starts, while Vale worked on his laptop on the couch behind him.

Focus. Just focus on the words.

His left hand moved to his face, his fingers finding his eyelashes and pulling until he felt the sharp sting of hair separating from skin. The small pain was grounding, controllable, unlike everything else spiraling through his mind. Then he pulled again. And again.

Stop it. He’ll notice if you keep doing that.

But it felt like releasing pressure from a vessel ready to explode. Kieran dropped the eyelashes in his guitar to hide the evidence and reached for another.

Vale’s fingers stilled on the laptop and reached to card through his hair. It should have been comforting, but it only reminded Kieran of how thoroughly he’d disappointed the one person whose approval meant everything. Vale had been patient andkind, making breakfast and checking his bandaged hands and he didn’t mention the basement incident—which somehow burned the shame hotter than anger would have.

He forgave me. He said he forgave me. So why does everything still feel wrong?

The stupid fucking song stared back at him from his notebook, half-finished verses mocking him with their emotional distance. Every attempt felt like describing colors to someone who’d been born blind—technically accurate but fundamentally missing the experiential truth.

The words were right, pulled from that morning with brutal honesty. But they sat on the page like museum pieces, preserved and lifeless. When Kieran tried to sing them, his voice carried no conviction, no authentic understanding of what he’d written.

The aura started as it always did, a metallic taste creeping across his tongue while the edges of his vision began to shimmer with warning lights. Kieran bit down on his inner lip, trying to ground himself through it. His head felt stuffed with cotton, his thoughts moving too slowly through neural pathways that sparked and misfired without rhythm.

Don’t tell him. He’s already worried enough about you. You’re already enough of a burden. It’s just a focal. Breathe.

Vale’s email notifications chimed softly above him, the sound of a productive person managing a successful career while Kieran sat surrounded by failure and picked his eyelashes bald. The inadequacy felt familiar, comfortable in its reliability.

At least disappointment is consistent. At least I know how to be a failure.

“This l-line doesn’t work,” Kieran mumbled, crossing out another verse with angry strokes that tore through the paper. The violence felt good, like an eyelash pulling but more dramatic. He pressed harder, the pen tip breaking through to score the page underneath.

None of it works. Nothing I write makes sense because I don’t understand what I’m writing about.

Vale’s hand stilled in his hair. “What’s not working, sweetheart?”

The endearment hurt, warm and gentle and completely undeserved.Sweetheart.Like I’m precious instead of broken. Like I’m someone worth patience instead of someone who needs correction.

“The b-bridge. The whole st-structure. It’s—” A sob bubbled out of him without warning, frustration and exhaustion and the persistent metallic taste combining into overwhelming helplessness. “I c-can’t make it honest. I’m d-disappointing you again.”