Chapter 12
I'm so fucking overgrown and wild; tangled in my own vines, call it self-denial...
Vale
Beautiful, broken thing. Even your neurons are learning new rhythms I’ve taught them.
The transformation had been exquisite to watch.
Those first days when Kieran still fought—physically fought, leaving bruises on them both—had been necessary but exhausting.
Vale had expected the medication resistance immediately, but when it came on day three, watching Kieran push away his pills…
having to pin him down and force compliance. ..
That had been exciting in ways Vale hadn’t anticipated. The intimacy of the struggle. Bodies locked together on the kitchen floor, Vale controlling his breathing, his swallowing, everything. Kieran’s hatred sharp and immediate in his eyes even as his body learned to respond to Vale’s touch.
By day five, Kieran stopped fighting the medication. He looked like he was choosing his battles.
Vale had been prepared for an escape attempt around day seven or eight—that’s when most students cracked and made their desperate bid for freedom while they still had some fight left.
But Kieran surprised him. He waited until day sixteen.
When Vale heard the rolling pin slamming against reinforced glass, he’d felt something close to pride. There you are. I was wondering when you’d try.
The desperation in Kieran’s face when the glass wouldn’t break. The hyperventilating panic when he realized there was no way out. The way he’d crumpled to the floor sobbing while Vale calmly explained the futility of resistance.
It was perfect. Perfect in a way it never had been before.
After the first nine basement sessions, the pattern became routine.
Morning breakfast where Vale asked questions designed to keep Kieran uncertain, then in the afternoon, they went down to the basement.
The hood went on and music emerged between Kieran’s breathy sobs and pleading moans.
Sometimes, in the evenings, Kieran wrote in the notepad Vale had provided, processing Vale’s lessons into lyrics.
Vale stopped pretending the sessions were purely pedagogical during the break while Kieran’s fingers healed.
By the nineteenth, Kieran just whimpered.
Each one pushed further than the last. Sometimes he made Kieran play for hours until his fingers bled.
Sometimes the hood stayed on until his voice went hoarse begging for light.
Often enough, Vale’s hands found places that had nothing to do with music and everything to do with the want he’d stopped trying to justify.
Vale moved silently into the room, avoiding the floorboard that creaked near the dresser. He’d been spending more nights here than in his own bed lately, watching Kieran sleep between small seizures, reading his lyrics, tracking the transformation through each draft.
He reached for the notepad on Kieran’s nightstand, angling it to catch moonlight.
After twenty-one basement sessions, the fragments of his lyrics had bloomed into transcendent beauty:
“Tick tock, heart stop, paranoia never ends.
Trust the sounds, trust the ground, trust your so-called friends?
Breathe in, breathe out, but the air still tastes like lies.
Help me, heal me, but look deep into your eyes;
I see dollar signs dancing, I see profit in pain;
I see systems and symptoms and they’re driving me insane.
But maybe, just maybe, the poison’s the cure;
Maybe toxic is the only way to make it pure…”
Vale’s hands trembled holding the notepad.
Kieran saw him now. Truly saw him. He recognized the methodology of pain, the way Vale was breaking down his barriers to build him into something new. But more so—he was beginning to accept it.
“Maybe toxic is the only way to make it pure.”
Vale wanted to peel back every layer of protection until nothing remained except pure, unfiltered emotion made audible. He wanted to consume every note, every lyric, every gasping breath between words.
Mine. Every sound you make belongs to me now.
Another myoclonic jerk caught his attention, stronger this time. Kieran’s whole body spasmed, a whimper escaping his parted lips.
Vale set the notepad down, and settled his palm over Kieran’s heart to feel the rapid flutter beneath thin cotton.
Combined with the increased seizure activity and the persistent tremor in Kieran’s hands, every metric pointed to a nervous system under unbearable strain.
His other hand found Kieran’s hair, fingers threading through the dark strands damp with sweat.
“Such a good student,” Vale whispered. “Learning that I’m both your poison and your cure.”
He should leave. He should let Kieran sleep undisturbed and give his body time to recover.
Instead, Vale remained in the chair, reading the lyrics over and over. He memorized every line, every revision, every place where Kieran’s handwriting had pressed harder into the paper.
He felt something beyond satisfaction. Pride. Possession. The feeling of watching raw material transform into art under his hands.
His phone buzzed with an email from Atlantic Records. Vale deleted it without reading, the way he’d deleted dozens over the last three weeks.
How could he care about artists who thought pain meant a bad breakup? Who’d never been pushed past their breaking point to discover what lived on the other side?
Movement caught Vale’s attention. Kieran’s eyes fluttered open—unfocused, confused, taking several seconds to recognize Vale’s presence in the dim room.
When recognition hit, fear bloomed across Kieran’s features before he could control it.
“V-Vale?” he croaked. “What t-time is it?”
“Early.” Vale said. “You were seizing. I came to check on you.”
A lie and truth woven together. He stayed because of the seizures. But he’d been here for over an hour now, watching and reading and possessing Kieran’s sleeping form with eyes that hunger made greedy.
“Oh.” Kieran’s hand moved instinctively to his chest where Vale’s palm had been moments ago. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“You can’t control them.” Vale kept his tone gentle. “But we need to call the doctor to adjust your medication.”
Relief flickered across Kieran’s face, quickly suppressed. As if he didn’t want Vale to see how desperately relieved he was at the mundanity of Vale’s presence in his room.
Too late. I see everything you try to hide.
“The song is extraordinary, sweetheart.” Vale gestured to the lyrics. “What you’ve created from these past weeks—it’s everything I hoped it would be.”
Kieran’s eyes dropped to the notepad on his nightstand. When he looked back at Vale, there was something complex in his expression. Not quite gratitude. Not quite resentment. Like the beginning of pride in what he’d made from his own suffering.
“Thank you,” Kieran whispered.
Vale left before he could do something foolish. Like wake Kieran properly and drag him to the basement at four in the morning to make him sing those lyrics while his throat was still raw from sleep and his body still weak from seizing.
Patience. Tomorrow afternoon is soon enough.
Dawn came too slowly. Vale found himself in the kitchen at seven, preparing breakfast while his mind was already in the basement.
No hood today. He wanted to watch Kieran’s face when he sang the new lyrics. He wanted to see those honest brown eyes when they reached the line about toxic being the only way to make it pure.
Show me you understand what I’m making you into.
Kieran appeared in the kitchen doorway, dressed but disheveled, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion that three weeks of poor sleep carved into permanent fixtures. He saw Vale and stopped, that now-familiar fear flickering across his face before he suppressed it.
“Good morning,” Vale said, turning back to the eggs. “Sit. Breakfast in five minutes.”
Kieran obeyed without speaking, sinking into his usual chair with movements that spoke of a bone-deep weariness.
Vale plated the eggs with care, and added toast he cut into four squares instead of triangles because Kieran said he liked the appearance of having more on the plate than there actually was. He delighted in giving Kieran things he liked as much as he enjoyed his tears.
“We need to talk about the song,” Vale said, setting the plate down. “What you’ve written is exceptional. I want to record it.”
He watched Kieran pick up his fork with hands that trembled.
Let me break you again today.
“Rec-record it?”
“In the basement. This afternoon.” Vale kept his tone conversational, but he could see Kieran’s shoulders tense at the word. Basement. It had become Pavlovian—the mere mention made his breathing change, made tears gather in his eyes before they even reached the stairs.
“I...” Kieran swallowed hard. “Can we m-maybe wait? Just f-for today? I’m tired and I don’t think I can—”
“You’ll do as many sessions as I decide.” The words came out sharper than Vale intended, edged with the need he’d spent all night trying to suppress.
Kieran’s face crumpled. Not quite crying yet, but close. “Please. Vale, please, everything hurts. I’m s-s-so tired. Just one day off, please—”
Vale wanted to say yes. But his hands also itched to touch, his mind already planning how to make Kieran sing those lyrics with maximum emotional authenticity.
He wanted to peel back Kieran’s skin and count his heartbeats while he sang, to map every nerve ending with his tongue until he’d memorized the exact geography of his suffering.
“This afternoon,” Vale repeated, forcing his voice gentler. As if gentleness could erase the refusal. “Eat. You’ll need your strength.”
He watched Kieran’s face cycle through several expressions—desperation, resignation, defeat—before settling on blank acceptance. The moment when resistance died and compliance took over.
“Okay,” Kieran whispered, and the broken quality of his voice sent heat through Vale’s veins.