Page 45 of Discordant Cultivation

Vale moved silently into the room, avoiding the floorboard that creaked near the dresser. He’d been spending more nights here than in his own bed lately, watching Kieran sleep betweensmall seizures, reading his lyrics, tracking the transformation through each draft.

He reached for the notepad on Kieran’s nightstand, angling it to catch moonlight.

After twenty-one basement sessions, the fragments of his lyrics had bloomed into transcendent beauty:

“Tick tock, heart stop, paranoia never ends.

Trust the sounds, trust the ground, trust your so-called friends?

Breathe in, breathe out, but the air still tastes like lies.

Help me, heal me, but look deep into your eyes;

I see dollar signs dancing, I see profit in pain;

I see systems and symptoms and they’re driving me insane.

But maybe, just maybe, the poison’s the cure;

Maybe toxic is the only way to make it pure…”

Vale’s hands trembled holding the notepad.

Kieran saw him now. Truly saw him. He recognized the methodology of pain, the way Vale was breaking down his barriers to build him into something new. But more so—he was beginning to accept it.

“Maybe toxic is the only way to make it pure.”

Vale wanted to peel back every layer of protection until nothing remained except pure, unfiltered emotion made audible. He wanted to consume every note, every lyric, every gasping breath between words.

Mine. Every sound you make belongs to me now.

Another myoclonic jerk caught his attention, stronger this time. Kieran’s whole body spasmed, a whimper escaping his parted lips.

Vale set the notepad down, and settled his palm over Kieran’s heart to feel the rapid flutter beneath thin cotton. Combined with the increased seizure activity and the persistent tremor in Kieran’s hands, every metric pointed to a nervous system under unbearable strain. His other hand found Kieran’s hair, fingers threading through the dark strands damp with sweat.

“Such a good student,” Vale whispered. “Learning that I’m both your poison and your cure.”

He should leave. He should let Kieran sleep undisturbed and give his body time to recover.

Instead, Vale remained in the chair, reading the lyrics over and over. He memorized every line, every revision, every place where Kieran’s handwriting had pressed harder into the paper.

He felt something beyond satisfaction. Pride. Possession. The feeling of watching raw material transform into art under his hands.

His phone buzzed with an email from Atlantic Records. Vale deleted it without reading, the way he’d deleted dozens over the last three weeks.

How could he care about artists who thought pain meant a bad breakup? Who’d never been pushed past their breaking point to discover what lived on the other side?

Movement caught Vale’s attention. Kieran’s eyes fluttered open—unfocused, confused, taking several seconds to recognize Vale’s presence in the dim room.

When recognition hit, fear bloomed across Kieran’s features before he could control it.

“V-Vale?” he croaked. “What t-time is it?”

“Early.” Vale said. “You were seizing. I came to check on you.”

A lie and truth woven together. He stayed because of the seizures. But he’d been here for over an hour now, watching and reading and possessing Kieran’s sleeping form with eyes that hunger made greedy.

“Oh.” Kieran’s hand moved instinctively to his chest where Vale’s palm had been moments ago. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”