Page 38 of Discordant Cultivation

Vale lifted the guitar carefully from his lap and held out his hands, palms up. “Let me see.”

Kieran extended his hands with the last of his strength. Vale cradled them gently, examining the damage—fingertips swollen and red, strings had cut into the inflamed skin, leaving dark lines of blood from where the calluses had torn.

“There,” Vale said softly, almost tenderly. “Now you understand.”

“Understandwhat?“ Kieran almost wailed the words, too exhausted for anger. His world was only pain. His guitar was pain. Vale was pain. He was pain.

“That the basement is a mercy.” Vale’s thumbs brushed carefully over his ruined fingertips. “You wanted a different lesson. I gave you one. How does it compare?”

Kieran couldn’t answer. He could barely think past the throbbing agony in his hands.

“Next time,” Vale continued, “when you’re ready for your lesson, I want you to remember this feeling. Remember that in the basement, I just guide you through the experience.” He released Kieran’s hands. “That’s the difference between what I offer and what you just put yourself through.”

He left Kieran on the couch, hands cradled against his chest, understanding with devastating clarity that Vale made him torture himself. Vale had positioned the whole thing so Kieran couldn’t even blame him—you chose this, you insisted on something different, you refused my mercy.

That night, lying in bed with his hands wrapped in gauze, Kieran stared at the ceiling and understood.

The basement wasn’t the punishment.

Thiswas the punishment.

And he’d begged for it.

The next morning, Vale cleaned and rewrapped his fingers, saying something in a soft, soothing voice Kieran didn’t process into words. He just focused on the sound of the words and pretended they were comforting.

“I brought you something.” Vale placed a notepad on Kieran’s lap. “I’m going to let your fingers rest for a few days. But you can still create.”

Kieran stared at the notebook. What was he supposed to say?Thanks for taking a few days off from torturing me?

“You’re a writer, sweetheart. You process through lyrics.” Vale’s hand came to rest on Kieran’s shoulder. “So write. Whatever you’re feeling. However you need to say it. I won’t read it unless you want me to.”

The kindness was worse than the cruelty. Kieran could understand cruelty—he could categorize it, hate it, use it to fuel his anger. But this?

What am I supposed to do with this?

“I don’t—” Kieran’s voice cracked. “I don’t know how to—”

The tears came before he could stop them. Not angry tears or desperate ones. Just... confusion. Complete, overwhelming confusion about what Vale wanted, what any of this meant, whether the gentleness after so much pain was kindness or just another form of violence.

“Oh, sweetheart.” Vale’s hand moved to cup his face, thumb brushing away tears. “It’s alright. You’re alright.”

“I’m n-not—” Kieran couldn’t get words past the sobs building in his chest. “I don’t kn-know how to f-feel—”

“You don’t have to know. That’s what the notebook is for.” Vale’s other hand came to rest at the back of his neck—that familiar pressure that made Kieran’s nervous system go quiet despite everything. “Write it out. All the confusion, all the fear, all the things you can’t say out loud. It’ll help.”

Kieran sobbed harder, body shaking with the force of it. Because Vale was right. The notebookwouldhelp. Writing songs had always been his way of processing, of making sense of chaos.

Which meant Vale was giving him exactly what he needed while simultaneously being the reason he needed it.

“I h-hate you—” The words came out broken, nonsensical, caught between sob and confession.

“I know.” Vale pulled him carefully against his chest, mindful of his damaged hands. “I know you do.”

They sat like that while Kieran cried himself empty. Vale’s hand steady at his neck, the other stroking his hair, murmuring soft reassurances that felt genuine even though they couldn’t be. Even though this same man had tortured him yesterday and would probably torture him again tomorrow.

When Kieran finally quieted, Vale helped him eat breakfast. He cut his food into pieces Kieran could manage with bandaged hands. He held the cup so he could drink without gripping it. He did a dozen small acts of care that felt like mockery, except they didn’tfeellike mockery—they just felt careful. Attentive.

Almost loving.