Page 81 of Discordant Cultivation

It was irrational. It was stupid and inane and served no purpose and he would gladly empty every one of his bank accounts to hear it again.

He watched from his office doorway as Kieran moved through the parlor room, arms loaded with heavy hardbound volumes from the library. Philosophy texts, medical journals, architectural theory—dense books gathering dust for years, now positioned around the music room like offerings at an altar.

The collar sat against Kieran’s throat—dark leather against pale skin, soft padding Vale had commissioned for extended wear. Every time Kieran turned his head, the collar moved with him, a constant reminder that even in these soft moments, Kieran belonged to him.

Why did I put it on him?

The question circled Vale’s mind since the day he fastened the first collar around Kieran’s throat without explanation and walked away before his hands betrayed how badly he wanted to do more. He didn’t know then. He didn’t understand the compulsion driving him to replace the old collar with something designed for permanence.

Vale’s hands trembled at his sides. Eight steps to cross this room. Eight steps to hook his fingers under that leather and pull until Kieran’s breath caught, until those brown eyes went wide with the understanding that gentleness was only one part of who they were together.

Not yet. Fourteen days of restraint for a reason.

Kieran set each book deliberately, testing positions, adjusting them left or right until the placement satisfied some internal choreography. His lips moved in silent recitation—practicing lyrics, working through timing, absorbed in the architecture of his performance.

You could have removed it. At any time this week, any moment I left you alone. You could have hidden it or at least tried to assert some boundary around your body.

Understanding hit Vale like a drug in his bloodstream.

Seeing you wear my mark while choosing to stay close to me is everything I’ve ever wanted.

The realization caught his breath. All the days of gentle touches, patient conversations, soft kisses ending before they became demands…Kieran was finally relaxing into his new home. There were hints of humor and his real personalityemerging, he didn’t always need to be told to curl against Vale’s side when they watched TV together, and then initiating that kiss...

Vale feeling like his corneas were under constant assault by contact lenses was worth it in that one beautiful moment.

And through it all, the collar stayed around his bony, chokable throat—visible proof that even in soft spaces, Kieran knew he belonged to Vale.

Vale squeezed the doorframe, his knuckles white with the effort of restraint.

I could push you down right now. I could make you gasp and cry and remember what it feels like when I stop holding back. Not to break you—just to touch you the way I’ve been restraining myself from touching you.

The fantasy was vivid enough to make his pulse hammer—Kieran on his back, the collar pulled tight as Vale held him down. The sounds he would make, half protest and half plea, the way his stutter would fracture.

But you need the anger first. I can give us both what we need.

But God, the wanting was a living thing in his chest. It spurned him every morning to choose the contacts over the glasses that were an extension of himself for so long their absence felt like nakedness.

Because you might kiss me again.

It would happen again. Vale was certain.

The preparation was pathetic and necessary. Vale, who controlled every variable, wearing uncomfortable contacts on the slim chance that Kieran might initiate another kiss. He rearranged his entire sensory experience around the possibility of Kieran’s mouth.

Movement caught his eye—Kieran’s foot connected with the first book.

The heavy volume hit the floor with a thud that reverberated through the room’s perfect acoustics. It wasn’t accidental—it was purposefully timed to match whatever rhythm Kieran was hearing in his head, his body moving with unconscious grace.

Percussion. You’re turning the books into instruments.

The scattered books—each offering a different weight and different resonance when kicked—would become Kieran’s percussion section. It was ambitious and risky. Exactly the kind of choice that separated performers from artists.

And watching Kieran work through the logistics, watching the concentration on his face as he solved musical problems, Vale’s pulse quickened with something darker than appreciation for innovation.

Vale forced himself to breathe slowly and unclench his hands.

Control. The art requires this.

The truth beneath his justification was simple. Yes, Kieran needed help accessing the rage his performance required. But Vale was also desperate to touch Kieran, to make him cry and scream and reach emotions he was protecting himself from. The art needed it. Vale craved it. Both things were true, and he saw no contradiction between wanting Kieran’s tears for the song and wanting them because the sound made his blood sing.