Page 168 of Discordant Cultivation

“This is a rose seedling,” Vale explained. “I transferred it here last week because its roots were finally strong enough to survive in open soil.”

Kieran stared at the tiny plant, trying to reconcile Vale’s words with his own certainty that it was doomed. “It’s so s-small.”

“Growing roses from seeds is incredibly difficult,” Vale continued, one hand settling on Kieran’s back while the other gestured toward the mature rose bush towering beside them. “They require cold stratification—weeks of careful temperaturecontrol to trick them into germinating. Then constant monitoring, watering, protection from disease and pests.”

So much effort for something that might not survive anyway.

“It’ll d-die,” Kieran said flatly. “In the shadow of that b-big one. It doesn’t have a ch-chance.”

Vale was quiet for a moment, his hand continuing to move in slow circles against Kieran’s spine. “I started cultivating this particular seed when you came into my life.”

Months ago. I’ve been with him for months and it’s still this tiny, fragile thing.

“That’s p-pathetic,” Kieran whispered. “All this t-time and it’s barely grown at all.”

“Growing roses isn’t for the impatient,” Vale said softly. “They need constant pruning—cutting away the parts that would drain energy from healthy growth. They need support structures as they develop. They need someone willing to tend them carefully, consistently, even when progress seems impossibly slow.”

Vale’s fingers found Kieran’s chin, turning his face away from the seedling to meet his eyes directly. “Growing roses requires love, Kieran. Real love. The kind that understands beauty takes time to cultivate properly.”

He started growing this when he found me. When he decided I was worth his time...

Kieran looked back at the seedling, seeing it differently—not as something doomed to die, but as evidence of Vale’s long-term investment. Proof that even when progress seemed invisible, growth was happening beneath the surface where no one else could see.

Maybe it could grow to be as beautiful as the bush beside it. If it can withstand the weight of blooming into something new.

The thought settled something in his chest, making the concert announcement feel slightly less impossible. He turned to look at Vale again.

“C-can I kiss you?” Kieran asked, voice still rough from crying. “It makes me f-feel better.”

Vale leaned in immediately, close enough that Kieran could feel his breath against his lips. “You never need to ask to kiss me, sweetheart. These lips are always yours.”

Kieran closed the distance between them and his last stuttered sob escaped into Vale’s mouth, transforming into something that felt less like breaking and more like blooming.

Vale’s arms tightened around him as they kissed, warm and secure in the humid greenhouse air that smelled like roses and earth and growth. Kieran felt the anxiety about the concert and the guilt about being a burden dissolving into something more manageable.

I’m a flower made of trauma, photosynthesizing you.

The lyric formed complete and perfect in his mind, capturing exactly what this was—him taking Vale’s lessons, his careful breaking, his patient cultivation, and transforming it into something that could bloom. Using the very methods that should have destroyed him as fuel for growth instead.

You’re my light. The thing I grow toward even when the process hurts.

When they finally pulled apart, Kieran’s breathing had steadied, the crushing weight of inadequacy replaced by an inkling of hope. The seedling was still tiny beside its towering parent plant, but maybe that was okay. Maybe slow growth was still growth. Maybe being worthy of careful cultivation was enough.

53

You need me like you need to breathe, like flowers need the rain…

Vale

The rope bit into Kieran’s wrists where Vale had bound them behind his back—not tight enough to restrict circulation, but secure enough that struggling was futile. The blindfold transformed Kieran’s face into something almost ecclesiastical, all vulnerable trust and silent faith, the dark fabric stark against his pale skin that had finally lost the sickly pallor of constant stress.

Look at you. My beautiful supplicant, kneeling before me like prayer made flesh.

Vale’s fingers moved through Kieran’s hair, his nails scraping lightly against his scalp in patterns that made Kieran shiver and lean into the contact. Months of careful cultivation had brought them here—to this space where Kieran no longer fought the reminder lessons, where his submission transformed from survival instinct into something approaching devotion.

Vale loved breaking him down into sobbing, desperate pieces. He loved gathering those pieces afterward and fitting them back together with tender hands. He loved the way Kieran clung to him constantly now, his eyes always seeking his face forapproval, for direction, for the structure that made existence bearable.

You’ve made me whole in ways I didn’t know I was fractured.