Page 134 of Discordant Cultivation

“I would follow whatever g-guidelines you think are appropriate,” Kieran offered. “You could monitor everything, t-to make sure I d-don’t damage what we’ve created.”

“Give me time to consider the logistics,” Vale said, already planning the monitoring software that would let him experience Kieran’s unguarded thoughts in real-time.

“Thank you for c-considering it,” Kieran said, settling back with his guitar..

But beyond the practical considerations of control and monitoring, Vale found himself genuinely pleased that Kieran felt safe enough to ask for things.

Vale’s laptop screen displayed Alex Thayer’s latest desperate attempt—a blog post titled “The Rose Method: How Vale Rose Breaks Artists for Profit.” The writing was more coherent than Alex’s previous attempts in the past, still lacking concrete evidence but gaining traction in certain corners of the music industry where whispered rumors carried more weight than facts.

Poor Alex. Still bitter about discovering you weren’t exceptional enough to warrant my full attention.

Vale scrolled through the accusations, noting which details were accurate and which were Alex’s wounded imagination filling gaps in his incomplete understanding. The sexual implications were pure fiction—Vale’s cultivation of Alex had been entirely about finding the emotion hidden under allthat technical skill, but nothing like the deeper transformation Kieran required.

You were talented, Alex. Just not transcendent. Not worth the kind of education that turns broken boys into devastating artists.

The industry had already dismissed Alex as unstable—the substance abuse visible at networking events, the increasingly erratic social media presence, the way he’d accused three other producers of similar “abuse” when they’d simply declined to work with him. His credibility had eroded to nothing, which meant these blog posts were little more than screaming into a void that stopped listening.

I gave you exactly what you could handle. It’s not my fault you wanted more than you deserved.

Vale’s phone buzzed with a calendar reminder he’d set himself: ‘schedule Dr. Henley’. Kieran’s “little seizures”, as he called them, were getting worse. The stress of their intensifying dynamic affected his epilepsy in ways that required adjustment.

I need to protect you from your own nervous system. Even as I push you, I have to keep you safe enough to survive your success.

The self-harm had evolved too—from nail biting to eyelash pulling to that concerning habit of picking at his scabbed knuckles when he thought Vale wasn’t watching.Tomorrow I’ll call Dr. Henley. Maybe he can adjust the Keppra dosage, maybe add something for impulse control—

Vale’s phone rang, displaying a number that tightened his jaw with irritation. “What do you want, Nox?”

“Valerian, my friend,” Nox’s oily voice slithered through the speaker. “I have an invitation for you. A private gathering next weekend, very relaxed atmosphere. No phones, no recording devices, just artists and producers sharing... creative insights.”

“I’m not interested.” Vale’s tone carried the kind of finality that ended conversations, but Nox pressed forward.

“Come now, don’t be antisocial. Bring your Bandaid boy—I’m sure he’d enjoy meeting other artists at his level. Unless, of course, you’re scared of letting him off the leash again.”

Vale’s grip tightened on the phone, murderous fantasies blooming in his mind. He could imagine exactly how Nox’s larynx would feel crushed beneath his fingers and picture the exact shade of purple his face would turn when those predatory vocal cords produced only silence.

I could make music from your dying breath.

Movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention. Kieran stood in the office doorway in an oversized t-shirt that fell to mid-thigh, bare legs pale in the hallway light. He rocked on the balls of his feet, nervous energy radiating from his slight frame while his eyes remained fixed on the floor.

A nightmare? A seizure? Or just couldn’t sleep without me?

“I have to go,” Vale said into the phone, cutting off whatever new provocation Nox was attempting.

“Think about my offer. It would be such a shame if your protégé missed opportunities because you’re too possessive to—”

Vale ended the call and set the phone aside, giving Kieran his complete attention. “Come here, sweetheart.”

He patted his lap in invitation, the same gesture that had become routine over weeks of evening conversations. Instead of curling up sideways in Vale’s lap like a cat seeking warmth, Kieran moved to straddle him in the office chair. That’s when Vale realized the oversized shirt was all Kieran wore beneath the collar—no underwear, no barriers, just warm skin and trembling determination.

Christ. You’re making another choice.

Vale’s hands found Kieran’s hips, steadying him while he read Kieran’s body like sheet music. His pupils normal—no post-ictal confusion, no flushing, no strange breathing patterns. His eyes shone with those beautiful tears that made Vale’s mind short circuit and devolve into filth.

“Kieran, look at me.” Vale hooked his fingers beneath the collar and tugged his face closer. “Are you here with me? All the way here?”

The tears spilled over as Kieran nodded, carving wet paths down his cheeks, and Vale wanted to follow them with his tongue—to trace them back to the ducts, to the nerves, to whatever the soft place inside Kieran was that made his trepidation so exquisite. His hands ached to find the pressure points in those narrow hips, the places where bone met tendon met skin, andpressuntil the wellspring opened again “I’m h-here.”

Before Vale could ask the next question, Kieran’s mouth found his neck, his lips pressing against his jugular. Electricity shot through Vale from the point of contact. His grip tightened on Kieran’s hips, pulling him closer while Kieran continued that soft exploration of his neck—kissing, tasting, learning the geography of surrender in the only language he had left.