Page 136 of Discordant Cultivation

I want to sleep here. Still inside you, still holding you, still breathing the same air. I want to crawl inside your ribcage and live between your heartbeats until we’re the same person—my obsession, my ruin, eternally entwined.

Vale held him close, one hand cradling the back of Kieran’s head while the other traced idle patterns on his spine—tender and possessive in equal measure, unable to separate the fierce protectiveness from the darker satisfaction of ownership, the pressure finally released into sated calm.

With what had just happened—this full surrender, this choice Kieran had made even while crying through it—Vale felt like he was becoming Kieran’s as much as Kieran was his. It terrified him. It thrilled him.

Mutual possession.

Kieran’s breathing gradually steadied against his neck and Vale’s fingers found the collar again, tracing the padded edge where it met Kieran’s skin, feeling his pulse flutter beneath the leather.

They stayed like that on the office floor while the laptop screen dimmed on Alex Thayer’s accusations and the phone sat silent after Nox’s provocation. The outside world could scream its warnings and judgments, but in this moment, wrapped in each other’s arms and unspoken confessions, none of it mattered.

This is everything I never wanted and everything I never knew I needed.

43

Love isn't meant to set you free—love claims you as its own…

Kieran

Two weeks passed since that night in Vale’s office.

Two weeks since Kieran had straddled him in the chair and chosen to give in to his lust while pretending it was for the song. Two weeks of settling into what he’d become—what he’d always been, maybe. He was just too afraid to admit until Vale stripped away every defense he’d built.

He was someone who needed guidance everyday.

That didn’t make him weak. It didn’t. There was strength in admitting when he needed someone to take the reins, and Vale actually wanted to do that. And even more than that, he loved Kieran.

It didn’t make him weak.

The laptop screen glowed in the dim morning light, the cursor blinking in the comment box beneath a reaction video titled “THORN & BLOOM - ‘Library Card’ Analysis.” Kieran’s fingertips hovered over the keyboard, his nail beds raw from the previous night’s anxious picking, but his chest felt warm with something that might have been genuine happiness.

He typed carefully, mindful of his damaged fingers:

THORN.official

Thank you for watching and listening. I loved your interpretation of some of the lyrics. Please keep doing what you’re doing!

The response was almost immediate. Hearts flooding the reply, people saying they’d been crying, that his vulnerability had moved them, that they couldn’t wait for the full album. Real people, with profile pictures and histories, taking time to connect with his music in ways that felt impossibly precious.

Kieran’s thumb found his bottom lip, his teeth worrying at a piece of loose skin while he scrolled through more comments. The habit had gotten worse over the past two weeks—nail biting that left his fingertips bloody, cuticle picking that sometimes didn’t stop until Vale noticed and gently pulled his hands away.

Another comment caught his attention:

Thorn, my daughter is learning guitar because of you. She says your music makes her feel less alone with her anxiety. Thank you for being brave enough to share your truth.

Kieran’s throat tightened with emotion that had nothing to do with Vale’s lessons or systematic education. This was connection without conditions, appreciation without agenda. He typed back:

THORN.official

Tell her she’s not alone. Music saved me too.

Saved me. From what, exactly? From being a nobody street performer who couldn’t pay for his medication? Or saved me by breaking me into something people actually want to hear?

The philosophical questions felt too heavy for seven in the morning. Kieran closed the laptop and padded to the kitchen. Vale was already at the coffee machine, his hair slightly mussed from sleep, wearing pajama pants that hung low on his hips in ways that made Kieran’s stomach flutter with want.

“Good morning, beautiful boy.” The greeting was warm, affectionate, followed by Vale’s hands settling on Kieran’s waist like they had always belonged there.

“Fan mail?” Vale asked, nodding toward the closed laptop.