Page 165 of Discordant Cultivation

But this felt like a moment that mattered. A small door opening, offering a glimpse of something Vale usually kept hidden. And Kieran was standing there with his medication in his hand and his eyes on the ground like he was already accepting a non-answer and Vale found that he didn’twantto lie.

“You kissed me back,” Vale said.

Kieran blinked and met his gaze. “What?”

“The first time. When I kissed you, and you—” Vale’s throat felt tight. This was harder than he’d expected, exposing something so small and so stupid and sorevealing. “You kissed me back. And I realized that my glasses were going to be a problem.”

“A p-problem?”

“If you wanted to do it again.” Vale forced himself to hold Kieran’s gaze, even as heat crept up his neck. “That moment of hesitation—having to remove them, or bump into them, or adjust them—it could ruin things. Ruin the moment. So I got contacts.”

Kieran stared at him.

“I hate how they feel,” Vale admitted, and god, he sounded pathetic. “I hate putting them in, I hate taking them out, I hate the way my eyes get dry if I forget to blink. But the thought of—of reaching for you and having something in the way—”

He stopped. He’d said too much. Revealed too much. Kieran was looking at him like he’d never seen him before, and Vale didn’t know what to do with that look, didn’t know how to—

Kieran set down the water glass.

He crossed the space between them in two steps, and then his hands were on Vale’s face—cupping his jaw, tilting his head down—and Kieran was kissing him.

It was soft and gentle. Kieran’s thumbs stroked along Vale’s cheekbones, his lips warm and careful, his whole body leaning into Vale like he was trying to say something words couldn’t capture.

“I l-liked your glasses,” he said quietly. Almost shyly. “Just so you know.”

And then he grabbed the pill, swallowed it dry, and practically fled the room.

52

Stumble through the humble, I'm the king of friendly fumble; Mumble when I rumble, watch my confidence crumble…

Kieran

The nausea hit without warning, bile rising in Kieran’s throat as he stared at the Instagram caption on his laptop screen: “Viral sensation Thorn’s first concert SOLD OUT!”

His fingers moved automatically to check the venue details, each click feeling like stepping closer to a cliff’s edge. The Royal Theatre. Capacity: 10,000.

Ten thousand people.

Ten thousand strangers expecting him to perform songs that had to be ripped out of him while they documented every moment, every stutter, every potential seizure for social media consumption. Ten thousand sets of eyes watching him break down for their entertainment.

I can’t. I can’t do this. There’s no way I can—

Vale’s attention was focused on his computer, and he looked like he was ten layers deep in Pro Tools, working on the audio for ‘Descent’. His glasses were back and slipping down the bridge of his nose like they did when he was concentrating really hard. He was being honest, that he preferred Vale in those glasses. He looked warmer.

But today Kieran couldn’t focus on that warmth. His entire nervous system was consumed by the image of that massive venue and the certainty that he would fail spectacularly in front of ten thousand witnesses.

His messenger notification dinged, cutting through his spiraling thoughts with the familiar terror that accompanied every message from Jericho lately:

JerichoMakesMusic

Update on my friend’s pet situation—the new home is ready whenever the pet is ready to move.

Kieran’s hands started shaking as he stared at the message.She’s trying to save me. She thinks I need saving.

But the messages terrified him for reasons he couldn’t fully articulate—not just because Vale might discover what she was referencing and be disappointed with him again, but because a small, treacherous part of his mind actually yearned for what she was offering.

Control. Agency. The ability to make decisions about my own shitty life again.