Page 91 of Discordant Cultivation

“I have something else to show you,” Vale continued, reaching for his laptop with one hand. “The response to the new song has been extraordinary.”

The screen lit up with numbers that caught Kieran’s breath. Two million views. Comments, reaction videos, covers, analysis pieces that treated his angry breakdown like legitimate art instead of public therapy.

Holy shit. People actually care about this.

“Look at these,” Vale murmured, clicking through to show him response videos. A battle rapper breaking down his flow patterns with genuine respect. Metal singers analyzing his vocal techniques. Classical musicians discussing the piano arrangement and book percussion as innovative compositions.

They think I’m good. They think what we made together is actually good.

“And here,” Vale said, scrolling to comments that tightened Kieran’s throat. “People defending you. People who understand.”

Anyone questioning this kid’s authenticity has never lived with chronic illness. This is what real pain sounds like when it finds its voice.

The rawness, the honesty—you can’t fake that level of emotion. Stop trying to tear down someone brave enough to share their truth.

This isn’t performance, this is confession. And it’s beautiful.

Kieran stared at the screen, reading validation he never expected to receive from strangers who’d witnessed his most vulnerable moments and chosen to defend him rather than dismiss him. People who saw authenticity where others had seen conspiracy, who saw the pain he turned into music.

They believe me. They believe in me.

They loved the performance. They had no idea what it had taken to access that rage, no concept of the violation that had crystallized fury into something performable.

The tears came without warning—not the careful moisture of someone trying to look vulnerable, but ugly, desperate sobbing that shook his entire body. Kieran buried his face against Vale’s chest, overwhelmed by the swell of too many competing emotions. Grief for his destroyed guitar. Relief at finally being believed. Horror at what it had cost. Gratitude for validation. Shame for accepting comfort from the person who made comfort necessary.

“Hey,” Vale murmured, his arms wrapping around him again. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? These are good responses. People love what you created.”

What we created. What you forced me to create through methods I can’t forget and can’t forgive and can’t stop being grateful for.

“I don’t—I don’t kn-know,” Kieran gasped between sobs. “I don’t know why I’m c-crying. I should be happy, right? People finally b-believe me, they think I’m talented, they’re d-defending me...”

Vale’s hand moved in soothing circles across his back. “Sometimes relief is painful. You’ve been carrying the weight of strangers’ doubt for weeks.”

No.

I’m crying because they love what you made me into. And I’m crying because I can never go back to who I was before. AndI’m crying because I destroyed the last piece of that person with my own hands.

“You’re safe,” Vale whispered and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “You’re talented, you’re validated, and you’re safe with me.”

His hands ached and his back throbbed and his body remembered those fingers in ways that sitting in Vale’s lap made impossible to ignore. His head felt foggy and his mouth tasted like metal. Kieran didn’t know what to do or think or feel, so he just cried until he couldn’t anymore.

Vale held him through it, whispering sweet things to him, his fingers occasionally brushing the collar like a reminder of ownership, while millions of strangers praised the beautiful things a broken person could create in the right hands.

27

In the quiet of his suffering, when the world has turned away…

Kieran

The limo idled outside the venue like an expensive black coffin, the engine humming with the patience of something that could wait forever for its passengers to make decisions they weren’t ready to make. Through the tinted windows, Kieran could see people flowing toward the building’s entrance—professionals in sharp suits and fancy casual wear, moving with the confidence of belonging somewhere he’d only ever dreamed of.

I can’t do this.

His hands shook as he stared at himself, unable to reconcile the reflection in the window with any version of himself he recognized. The suit jacket was perfectly tailored, but underneath, his torso was wrapped in gauze, arranged in artistic patterns like an avant-garde fashion statement.

Vale had replaced his usual small hoops with gleaming Tiffany earrings that caught light when he moved. A silk tie hung untied around his neck over the gauze wrapping, sophisticated and careless. The suit pants hugged his hip bones and emphasized the sharp angles of his knees, and he was barefoot.

I look like a museum exhibit. ‘Wounded Artist’ by someone who thinks trauma is aesthetic.