Page 78 of Discordant Cultivation

The view count onTemple of Fleshwas past four million. Kieran stopped asking Vale to check the comments after the first few days—unable to stomach another debate about whether his medical emergency was performance art, whetherTemple of Fleshwas exploitation or poetry, whether any of it was real.

Don’t think about it. Focus on the music. That’s all that matters.

But the anger bled into every chord progression and every lyric fragment. The need to defend himself to people who’d already decided he was a liar lived in his fingertips and manifested as ink on the page.

“What are you working on?” Vale’s hands found their way into Kieran’s hair, combing through it with the casual intimacy that had somehow become normal.

Kieran’s pen stilled. The lyrics were raw, too obviously about the comments calling him a liar. About internet strangers debating whether his seizures were real. It was omphaloskepsis disguised as art.

“It’s not ready,” Kieran sighed. “It’s just—fr-fragments. Nothing coherent yet.”

“May I see?”

The request was gentle, but Kieran recognized the underlying expectation. Fourteen days of peace created the illusion of choice, but they both understood the parameters. Vale asked for things politely, Kieran provided them, and everyone pretended this was normal.

“I don’t—it’s probably t-t-terrible,” Kieran stammered, clutching the notebook. “It’s just me being w-whiny about internet comments. You’ll think it’s pathetic.”

“I won’t think anything until I hear it,” Vale said. “Maybe just play me the melody you’re working on? Without the lyrics, if you’re not ready to share those yet.”

A compromise.

Kieran set the notebook aside and positioned his guitar properly, his fingers finding the chord progression he’d been building. The melody was aggressive but melancholy, questions posed in minor keys that demanded answers the world wasn’t providing.

He played the opening bars, then moved into what might eventually become a chorus—confrontational but unbearably sad, like someone screaming into wind that scattered their words before they could be properly heard.

“Stop there,” Vale said softly. “Play that last part again.”

Kieran repeated the progression, watching Vale’s face for signs of judgment. Instead, he saw excitement building in his eyes.

“The rhythm,” Vale murmured. “It wants accompaniment. Piano, I think.” He was already standing, moving with purpose toward a door Kieran never seen opened. “May I show you something?”

Kieran followed without being asked, curiosity overriding anxiety.

The room beyond was enormous—a formal parlor repurposed into a conservatory. Instruments lined the walls: guitars, violins, a drum kit, keyboards of various sizes. But dominating thecenter was a baby grand piano that looked older than anything else in the house.

How did I not know this room existed?

Vale moved toward the piano with a familiarity that spoke of countless hours at those keys. The bench was worn smooth, adjusted perfectly for his frame. When he settled onto it and lifted the fallboard, Kieran could see the keys showed signs of heavy use—ivory worn thin in places, the edges rounded by decades of contact.

“Play the progression again,” Vale said,his hands hovering over the keyboard.

Kieran positioned himself where Vale could hear him, then launched into the melody. Immediately, Vale’s hands found complementary notes, building a foundation that transformed Kieran’s aggressive questioning into something deeper.

He’s not just playing along. He’s translating my anger into something bigger.

Vale’s fingers moved across the keys with fluid grace, finding harmonies Kieran hadn’t known were hiding in his simple chord progression. But more than technical skill, there was something emotional in the way Vale played—like he understood exactly what the music was trying to say and was helping it say it more clearly.

When the progression ended, Vale continued playing, developing themes and variations that turned Kieran’s fragments into complete musical thoughts. His entire posture changed at the piano, shoulders relaxed, his face soft and peaceful and serene.

He’s beautiful like this. Lost in the music, not performing or manipulating or controlling. Just... creating.

“It’s perfect,” Vale said, finally lifting his hands from the keys. “Angry and confrontational but melancholic. Like someonetrying to defend themselves from accusations they can’t fully refute.”

Kieran stared at Vale’s profile, seeing something that felt dangerously close to understanding.

“Play it again,” Kieran heard himself say. “B-but slower this time. I want t-to try something.”

Vale’s hands found the keys again, establishing rhythm with gentle hammer falls that invited rather than commanded. This time, Kieran began to sing, but it was raw—half-spoken lyrics that rode the piano’s rhythm like poetry.