Page 169 of Discordant Cultivation

Their days had settled into comfortable patterns that felt almost domestic despite the underlying current of lessons and corrections. Morning walks through the property had become a tradition since the greenhouse visit—Kieran’s hand finding Vale’s as they moved through the early winter-bare gardens, past the glass walls where roses bloomed year-round and Vale’s parents fed the soil. Afternoons with Kieran writing on the living room floor while Vale worked remotely.

The album was nearly complete. All tracks recorded except one—the Wax Wings duet that Jericho’s manager kept rescheduling with increasingly transparent excuses. Equipment failures. Scheduling conflicts. Studio availability.

She’s avoiding us. Avoiding what she thinks she sees when she looks at us.

Vale pushed his glasses up his nose, his jaw tightening at the thought of Jericho. He didn’t trust her. He didn’t like the way her eyes tracked his hands whenever they touched Kieran, the careful distance she maintained, the questions she’d asked at the networking event about why a producer carried rescue medication. She looked at him like she was gathering evidence for a case she hadn’t yet decided to build.

The irony wasn’t lost on him. His beautiful boy helped her shed the “Flake” persona, had given her permission to perform as herself for the first time in years. And now she circled their relationship like a predator scenting blood, her gratitude toward Kieran apparently insufficient to override whatever suspicions she’d developed about Vale.

You want to save him from me. But he doesn’t want saving. He wants keeping.

The concert loomed closer every day—the Royal Theatre, ten thousand seats, every one sold. Vale had been working with Kieran on performance preparation, building his stamina for the physical and emotional demands of a full set. But other preparations were needed too, other territories requiring exploration before Kieran could access the vulnerability that made his performances transcendent.

Why would I stop the lessons when you bloom so beautifully under pressure?

“V-Vale,” Kieran said softly, his voice carrying that tentative quality that meant he was about to ask for mercy he knew wouldn’t be granted. “Could we sk-skip the lesson today? I’ve been good...”

There it is. Your single attempt at negotiation before yielding completely.

The pattern had become ritual—Kieran asking once, Vale refusing, Kieran accepting with graceful surrender that made Vale’s heart flutter and his cock hard. It was a dance they both understood now, a necessary pretense of agency before the inevitable submission.

“No,” Vale said simply, his fingers tightening in Kieran’s hair until his head tilted back. “You know better than to ask.”

Kieran’s throat worked as he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath skin Vale had marked with teeth and fingers so many times that the bruises were permanent fixtures. “Y-yes. I’m sorry.”

Not sorry. Just following the script we’ve written together.

Vale guided Kieran’s head forward again, resuming the gentle hair-stroking that contrasted so perfectly with the binding and blindfold. This was what he’d been chasing all along—not just the breaking, but this aftermath where Kieran existed in pure sensory experience, stripped of visual input and physicalautonomy, dependent entirely on Vale’s voice and touch for orientation.

My beautiful instrument. Perfectly tuned through patient, careful attention.

The evening stretched ahead with anticipation that quickened Vale’s pulse—hours of education followed by Kieran’s favorite routine of mindless television, shows he’d missed during his years of survival busking. They’d started watching whatever captured Kieran’s attention: trashy reality shows where people screamed at each other over manufactured drama, anime with incomprehensible plots that Kieran tried earnestly to explain, endless Law & Order reruns that provided comfortable background noise.

Vale liked the routine more than the content—Kieran curled against his side on the couch, speaking quickly about fictional characters and plot twists, his animated enthusiasm for stories where problems resolved in neat sixty-minute packages. It was perhaps the most normal aspect of their relationship, this shared consumption of media that had nothing to do with music or lessons.

You spent your lonely years disappearing into other people’s narratives. Now you have me to ground you in this one.

The reminder lesson would continue soon—Vale had specific objectives for tonight, particular emotional territories he wanted Kieran to access for the final recording. But for now, he stroked Kieran’s hair and noted all the small changes: relaxed shoulders that no longer carried constant tension, breathing that steadied into peaceful acceptance, the absence of fidgeting or compulsive self-harm even in moments of vulnerability.

This is what wholeness feels like. Not cold satisfaction, but genuine connection built on foundations of careful destruction.

Flowers and chocolates and public declarations of love felt performative and hollow. But this? Kieran bound and blindfolded and trusting?Thiswas true love.

You’ve ruined me…but I would let you ruin me again and again until the end of time.

“Ready to begin?” Vale asked, though the question was rhetorical—they both knew Kieran had been ready since he knelt and accepted the blindfold without protest.

“Y-yes,” Kieran breathed.

“You’ve been turning down interview requests,” Vale said, his fingers still moving through Kieran’s hair with deceptive gentleness. “Rolling Stone, NPR’s Tiny Desk, even that podcast you mentioned wanting to do. Every single one, you’ve asked me to decline on your behalf.”

“I’m just t-tired,” Kieran said quickly, like he had practiced them a dozen times. Knowing Kieran, he probably had. “The album recording has been exhausting, and I n-need to focus on getting the last tracks p-perfect.”

Vale’s hand stilled in Kieran’s hair. “Try again.”

“I—” Kieran’s voice wavered. “The c-concert is coming up, and I need to p-prepare mentally for performing in front of that many p-people. Interviews feel like too much p-pressure right now.”

Still deflecting. Still protecting whatever truth you’re afraid to voice.