Page 82 of Discordant Cultivation

Kieran practiced with his guitar—the safe one with nylon strings despite the fact Vale had offered him use of his collection. Fear had crept in where fury should live. The boy was holding back, protecting himself from his own lyrics.

The song was about being dismissed, about having his authenticity questioned by strangers who’d never experienced seizures, who’d never understood the violation of having medical emergencies debated like entertainment. Raw fury channeled into poetry, the kind of anger that burned clean and true when he’d written it.

But now, faced with performing that anger, Kieran was retreating into technical skill again. Playing it safe. Burying the rage under competence because rage meant vulnerability, and vulnerability was scary.

You’re scared of the fire you wrote into those words. They deserve your rage. Every ounce of fire you’re swallowing to protect yourself from me.

The song’s climax required blurring the line between sadness and anger, demanded emotional nakedness Kieran feared. And Vale knew exactly how to strip away those protective walls.

Vale’s phone buzzed with a text from Eliza: “Fifteen minutes out. Equipment loaded and ready to go.”

Perfect timing. Fate aligning with artistic necessity.

“Eliza,” Vale said when she answered his call, keeping his voice steady despite the way his pulse hammered. “I need you to make a quick stop. Can you grab some sodas? I don’t keep any in the house, but we’re going to be working for a while.”

“Of course! Any preferences?”

Vale looked toward the parlor room where Kieran knelt beside his arranged books, fine-tuning positions with obsessive attention to detail.

“What’s your favorite soda, Kier?” Vale called out.

Kieran looked up, confusion flickering across his features. “Dr. Pepper?”

Even your confusion is beautiful.

“Dr. Pepper,” Vale said into the phone. “And grab a variety pack in case we need caffeine for multiple takes.”

“No problem. See you in about forty-five minutes instead of fifteen.”

Forty-five minutes. That’s what I’m buying.

Vale ended the call and crossed to his office to retrieve the costume he’d prepared—simple black hoodie and mesh face covering. There was already endless speculation around theidentity of the hands that held Kieran through his seizure; a fully masked pianist accompanying him would drive people even more wild.

And they would let the internet theorize and wonder. The truth was more complex and more simple than they could imagine: Vale and his beautiful instrument, making art that mattered precisely because it cost so much to create.

He pulled on the hoodie and moved into the parlor room. Kieran’s expression shifted from confused curiosity to dawning realization the moment Vale entered—the boy spent days learning to read Vale’s intentions, and something in Vale’s posture broadcast that their gentle routine was about to be interrupted.

There it is. You recognize this. Your body remembers what comes next.

“Kieran,” Vale called, “bring your guitar down to the basement.”

The color drained from Kieran’s face like someone had pulled a plug. His hands began trembling immediately, tears gathering in those expressive brown eyes.

“I—” Kieran’s hand drifted up to his own throat, touching the collar. “I’ve been good. I haven’t done anything w-wrong. I’ve been cooperative and I-I-I finished the song and I—”

Vale closed the distance between them, his hands finding Kieran’s face, and he pressed a kiss to Kieran’s forehead. It was soft, reassuring, designed to interrupt the spiral of desperate justification before it gained momentum.

Kieran’s lips quivered as he looked up at Vale, and Vale wanted to bite them and swallow every protest before it could form. But he kept himself gentle and sweet and let Kieran taste safety for a few more moments before Vale stripped it away, because the contrast would make the lesson more effective.

“I know,” Vale murmured. “You’ve been such a good boy. So perfectly behaved. So beautiful when you let yourself be soft with me.”

“But we need to get this right,” Vale continued, his voice warm with patient understanding that masked the hunger threatening to consume him. “The song demands something deeper than what you’re protecting yourself from. You need to dig into that anger, let it burn through your careful control.”

And I need to touch you. I need to push you until you reach what the song requires. I need your tears and your rage and the sound you make when you finally let yourself feel it.

“I c-can access it without—” Kieran’s voice cracked, his tears spilling over. “I don’t n-need lessons. I c-can be angry enough on my own.”

“We both know that’s not true,” Vale said, his voice dropping into tone he reserved for the basement.