Page 40 of Discordant Cultivation

Kieran watched the clock above the sink tick toward two o’clock and felt ice crawl down his spine.

His fingers had mostly healed. The swelling had gone down, the inflammation fading to dull pink instead of angry red. He could hold a pen without pain now and could probably hold his guitar if Vale made him.

Which meant the reprieve was over.

He’d spent three days writing in the notebook—furious, confused lyrics that tried to make sense of torture followed by tenderness, cruelty wrapped in care. Vale read some of it this morning, praising his honesty, and told him the pain was producing extraordinary work.

Then he set the notebook aside and said, “Your hands have healed enough. We’ll resume lessons this afternoon.”

Now it was 1:58 and Kieran couldn’t breathe properly. He couldn’t stop staring at the clock like watching it would slow time, like desperate observation would prevent two o’clock from arriving.

1:59.

His hands gripped the counter, his knuckles white. His whole body felt like a string pulled too tight, about to snap.

2:00.

He heard Vale’s footsteps in the hallway. He heard him pause in the kitchen doorway, waiting.

Kieran didn’t turn around. Just leaned harder against the counter and pressed his forehead to the cool stone, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Please.” The word came out so quiet it was barely audible. “Please d-don’t make me go d-down there today.”

“Sweetheart—”

“I’m t-tired.” His voice cracked. “My f-fingers are still—they’re still healing, they hurt, I just—” A sob caught in his throat. “Please. N-not today.”

Soft footsteps approached. He could feel Vale’s presence too close behind him, body heat bleeding through the space between them.

“Look at me.”

Kieran shook his head, his forehead still pressed to the counter.

“Kieran. Look at me.”

He turned slowly, reluctantly, and found Vale right there, only a few inches of space between them, with that gentle expression that made everything feel worse for some reason.

Vale’s thumb brushed away tears Kieran hadn’t realized were falling. “You do want to go to the basement.”

“I d-don’t—”

“You do.” Vale’s other hand curved around the back of his neck. “Because that’s where you’re becoming a better musician. That’s where the confusion becomes clarity. That’s where you learn to transform suffering into meaning.” His thumb stroked Kieran’s cheek. “You don’t want to stay up here feeling lost and scared. You want to go down there and let me guide you through it.”

“No—” But Kieran’s breath was coming too fast, chest tightening, vision starting to spark at the edges. “No, I d-don’t want—”

The panic attack hit like a freight train. His whole body shook, gasps coming rapid and shallow, lungs refusing to pull in enough air despite how desperately he tried.

Vale’s hand moved from the back of his neck to the front and tightened.

Not gently. Not carefully. He justsqueezed.

The pressure cut off his air supply completely. Kieran’s hands flew up instinctively to claw at Vale’s wrist, but he was already dizzy, already oxygen-deprived, and Vale’s grip was iron.

“Breathe slower,” Vale said calmly, like he wasn’t actively strangling him. “You’re hyperventilating. This will help.”

Kieran couldn’t breathe at all. His vision tunneled, body screaming for air, panic spiking higher—

Vale released the pressure and Kieran gasped in one desperate inhale, then he squeezed down again.