Page 95 of Discordant Cultivation

“I think,” Vale said smoothly, hand shifting from Kieran’s back to his elbow, “we need to step away for a moment. Excuse us.”

Vale guided him toward the bathroom as Kieran felt his lungs becoming smaller. They were withering in his body, reducing his capacity for breath. He was going to suffocate surrounded by air. This wasn’t his air. This was air that belonged to them, to those people, to artists who knew how to sing and play and write without someone hurting them.

“I c-can’t breathe,” Kieran gasped as Vale pushed him inside the bathroom, his hands coming up to claw at the gauze around his throat. “I c-can’t be here, I d-don’t belo—”

Vale’s mouth crashed against his before he could finish the sentence, the kiss desperate and consuming enough to steal what little breath he had left, pressing him back against the door. Vale pulled Kieran’s hands from his throat and replaced it with his own, squeezing as his tongue pushed into Kieran’s mouth, tasting his gasps and swallowing protests that never made it beyond his vocal folds.

Not here. Not in public.

“You haven’t needed this in a while,” Vale muttered against his lips, squeezing harder as Kieran’s vision became blotchy.

He could have pushed back. He could have tried to yell. But Kieran’s body melted under Vale’s touch as his mind went blank. There was just the warm, gentle motion against his mouth as the panic receded, no air to distract him from the sensation. He didn’t need oxygen with Vale…

Pavlov’s dogs salivating at a bell while the fires of Hell raged around them.

He had always known he was wired wrong, but it seemed like Vale rewired him into a worse configuration. Or was it better? Did it matter which?

“You’re perfect,” Vale said. “We don’t have to stay, sweetheart. We can–”

“How do you know Mr. Nox?” Kieran asked, needing to deflect from the way he wanted to say yes to leaving. It was better to focus on external threats than the one pinning him to the door.

Vale’s expression darkened slightly, but his hand finally left Kieran’s throat to settle at his waist. “Nothing you need to worry about. He’s from my past. We have professional disagreements about artistic development methods.” His grip tightened. “If anyone from Two Suns Studios talks to you, make sure you stay close to me.”

What kind of disagreements?

But before Kieran could ask, Vale was straightening his appearance, smoothing the gauze wrappings, adjusting the untied tie, ensuring he looked intentionally disheveled rather than like someone who was having a panic attack moments before.

“Ready to go back out there?” Vale asked, his hand finding its familiar position on Kieran’s lower back.

Kieran nodded, still not sure. He felt more like an overgrown exotic pet rather than an independent artist. But the warmth in Vale’s eyes felt real, like someone genuinely proud of him. And outside that bathroom door waited conversations Kieran had dreamed of his entire life, recognition from people whose opinions actually mattered.

Just for tonight. Just this once, I can pretend this is normal.

Two hours later, Kieran’s nerves had transformed from terror into something more like exhausted overwhelm. He met YouTubers whose guitar tutorials he’d watched during his early street performing days and older guitarists whose techniqueshe’d studied from grainy concert footage. But instead of only Kieran being starstruck and fumbling over his words, they were excited to meethim.

What fascinated him more was watching Vale navigate the room like a social chameleon. With record executives, Vale was all sharp business acumen, discussing market projections and demographic appeal. With fellow producers, he became laid-back and joking, trading industry gossip with casual authority. With the more pretentious artistic types, Vale slipped into intellectual mode with philosophical discussions about authenticity and artistic integrity that were somehow both sincere and performative.

He’s like a quick-change magician. A different persona for every audience.

“I need to s-sit,” Kieran said softly as Vale finished making small talk with someone’s name he was sure he had been told but couldn’t remember.

Vale guided him to the bar without question, positioning Kieran on a stool with his back to the crowd while Vale faced outward, maintaining his role as social buffer. His pinky found Kieran’s wrapped hand, stroking along his knuckles.

“How m-much longer?” Kieran asked, shoulders hunched as he made himself smaller.

“A bit longer. The organizer is insistent all guests stay until after Flake performs her new material.” Vale’s tone was almost sarcastic, which made Kieran feel a little better for some reason. “She does have talent, but they’ve got her completely miscast. She’s an alto, but they’re forcing her to sing soprano at the top of her register. All her recordings are technically beautiful but muddy because she’s too quiet at that key.”

Kieran’s chest ached with sympathy for the singer. “That’s s-sad. Like she’s being set up to fail.”

“Welcome to the industry.”

As roadies set up a small stage area, Kieran grabbed a cocktail napkin instead, scratching lyrics while Vale hummed something soft and complex under his breath. The moment was intimate despite the crowd, like they existed in their own creative bubble.

The song had been haunting him since high school, back when he’d gone through a Greek mythology phase and devoured every story about gods and monsters. He’d found the rhythm first, the flow that crashed like waves against ancient shores, but the words always eluded him. Too grand, too heavy—every attempt was trying to capture lightning in amateur hands.

But now, with Vale’s humming providing texture and his fingers wrapped in gauze that turned writing into ceremony, the words were finally coming. Something about Icarus, about flying too close to what someone wanted most.

I don’t even know if he can sing.