Page 47 of Discordant Cultivation

Vale

Vale’s fingers trembled as he adjusted the recording equipment. The lyrics sat between them like evidence waiting to be given voice. Every microphone stood positioned to catch what promised to be a performance worth destroying a soul for.

“Hands,” he said, turning from the console.

Kieran extended his arms without being asked twice—another small victory.

He started with Kieran’s left hand, wrapping each finger in gauze was a process that soothed something in him—transforming evidence into aesthetic, covering the bruises around Kieran’s wrists and the raw spots on his palms where he’d gripped the guitar with white-knuckled desperation. Each layer of gauze turned damage into art.

“Why s-so much?” Kieran asked, watching Vale’s hands spiral up his forearm.

“Because you’re performing on video.” Vale wound the gauze in overlapping layers. “And if there are questions around these marks, people won’t focus on what you play.”

He finished the left arm and moved to the right, repeating the process. Kieran’s breathing steadied, falling into rhythm with Vale’s movements.

When Vale reached for Kieran’s throat, the boy’s hand came up instinctively.

“Not my n-neck.” Panic edged Kieran’s voice. “Please. It’s—I can’t breathe if—”

“You’ll breathe fine.” Vale caught his wrist gently, guiding it back down.

Kieran’s jaw tightened, but he tilted his head back in surrender.

Vale wrapped the gauze around his throat, loose enough not to restrict but tight enough to cover the fading bruises from two days ago when Kieran had a surge of defiance that made Vale remind him who was in control. The white fabric transformed his neck into something elegant, almost ethereal.

Like a fallen angel trying to hide his wounds from heaven.

“There.” Vale secured the end. “Beautiful.”

Kieran’s fingers went to his throat immediately, touching the gauze with obvious discomfort, but he didn’t try to remove it. He just stood there, wrapped in white like a sacrifice prepared for the altar, looking both vulnerable and strangely untouchable.

The world will see an aesthetic choice where we know there’s evidence. It will be our little secret.

Vale stepped back to assess his work. Today he’d watch Kieran’s face as he sang about what three weeks of lessons had taught him. No bag to hide behind. Just those eyes and that voice telling truths he was still afraid to fully accept.

Kieran adjusted his grip on the guitar, the gauze on his fingers creating a soft whisper against the strings. His fingers worried at them without playing actual notes, generating a nervous sound that Vale found almost as compelling as intentional music.

“I n-n-need more time. It’s not—I didn’t think you’d want me to p-play it so soon. It’s not refined. Not wh-what you probably want to—”

“It’s exactly what I want.” Vale moved closer, unable to resist the magnetic pull of his distress. “Raw. Unpolished. Still bleeding from where it tore its way out of you.”

His hand found Kieran’s face, his thumb tracing the dark circles beneath those expressive eyes. Kieran didn’t pull away.

“I c-can’t,” Kieran whispered. “Not while you’re watching. Not without...”

He didn’t finish, but Vale knew.Not without the hood. Not without the darkness that had become both torment and strange comfort.

Perfect. You’re already dependent on it. Now let’s see what happens when I take it away.

“Listen to me.” Vale’s other hand settled on Kieran’s hip, holding him steady when he tried to step back. “Perform this perfectly—no mistakes, no emotional guarding—and I’ll never put the bag on you again.”

Kieran’s eyes went wide, his pupils dilating with something between hope and terror.

“And five days.” Vale watched the way Kieran’s breath hitched at each promise. “Five days without basement sessions. Just rest, regular meals, time to let your nervous system recover.”

And let’s see how long it takes before you’re begging me to put it back on. Before you realize you need the structure, the darkness, the way I break you open. Three days, I think. Maybe four before you beg.

“You m-mean it?” Kieran’s voice cracked on the question, so desperate for reprieve that Vale felt it like a physical caress.