Chapter 15
For attention is attention, even when it comes with thorns…
Vale
Vale’s phone buzzed for the third time in an hour, vibrating against the nightstand like an insect actively trapped in amber. He ignored it.
He shouldn’t be here. Kieran didn’t know Vale had been slipping into his room each night, watching him sleep like some lovesick puppy instead of the disciplined architect he always prided himself on being.
But the need to observe was compulsive—checking on seizure activity, yes, but also just watching the only person who ever made him feel something.
Another myoclonic jerk rippled through Kieran’s left arm, the limb twitching against the mattress in that characteristic shock-like movement. Vale noted the timing—seventeen seconds since the last one.
The phone buzzed again. Vale finally picked it up, recognizing Anderson Nox’s private number—another independent producer and arguably a good acquaintance (though Nox had always insisted they were friends since their college dorm days).
“Nox,” Vale answered, voice pitched low to avoid disturbing Kieran’s fitful sleep.
“Valerian! Jesus Christ, finally. Why the fuck do you have a phone if you won’t answer it?
Have you seen this thing that’s been blowing up on socials?
Some kid singing his heart out in what looks like a basement?
” Nox’s voice carried that particular excitement that meant he smelled money and vulnerability in the water.
“Two point three million views and climbing.”
Vale’s gaze never left Kieran’s face as another myoclonic jerk moved through his shoulders—a brief tensing as Kieran’s eyes opened for a moment with that unfocused, vacant look before settling closed again without waking. “I may have come across it.”
“The kid’s got something, Valerian. Raw talent, but completely unpolished. Exactly the kind of diamond in the rough you usually dig up from whatever cave you find artists in.” Nox paused, probably scrolling through comments. “Any chance you know something about him?”
Is right now the time to play games, Nox?
“Actually,” Vale said, tracing idle patterns on the sheet near Kieran’s shoulder, “I’ve just signed him.”
There was silence on the other end of the line, then a low whistle. “You’re up to no good, aren’t you? I thought you were done mentoring after that last disaster?”
Now how do you know about that?
“Special exception. If you saw the video, I’m sure you can understand.” Vale made a mental note to see if Alex Thayer had been signed anywhere. There were only two people on the planet who knew what happened there, and Vale wasn’t dumb enough to tell Nox of his failures.
“So when are you doing a full debut with this sad little guitarist? Or are you planning to social media this kid into fame? Because last I checked you don’t even own a television.
” Nox has that teasing edge in his voice that made Vale want to put him through a plaster wall.
“I’d be more than willing to get one of my artists to collab with him.
You could boost him so fast with the right feature.
I still have that guitarist trying for a side solo job signed, and I wouldn’t even ask you for all that much time with your little Bandaid angel. ”
Vale’s jaw tightened at Nox’s implication.
The industry loved finding fresh meat to chew up and spit out, and Kieran was exactly the kind of vulnerable they’d exploit without hesitation.
“We’re taking our time. He needs to find his voice before he plays with your broken toys.
Plus, I’m surprised you still have access to Vander Moss, I heard he broke your nose when you tried to touch him. ”
Nox scoffed. “So rude, Valerian. Fine. Don’t share your pretty things. Just know that Internet fame has a shelf life, and this kid’s already caught lightning in a bottle. Strike while the iron’s hot and all that.”
Vale ended the call as Kieran’s breathing hitched, another seizure beginning to build.
This time Vale watched as the episode progressed—the subtle muscle tension, the way Kieran’s fingers curled against the sheets in that involuntary spasm, the soft whimper that escaped his throat as electrical chaos fired through his brain.
When the seizure passed, Vale reached for Kieran’s notepad to see what he was working on, and froze.
“Temple of Flesh”—even the title made his pulse quicken. The lyrics were devastating, more psychologically complex than “Poison Saviors“ and twice as revealing about Kieran’s internal landscape. Written over the past five days, processing what happened in the basement before the break.
“Built a temple out of skin and bone; But the architect was never shown.”
Vale’s chest tightened with something between arousal and artistic reverence.
Kieran was evolving, processing their dynamic through religious metaphors that suggested a depth of understanding Vale hadn’t expected so soon.
The boy was learning to see himself as sacred architecture, something worthy of worship and destruction.
But it was the bridge that made Vale’s breathing shallow:
“What kind of God makes temples that betray themselves? What kind of love survives when the structure fails?”
You brilliant, broken boy. You’re asking all the right questions. You’re trying to understand why your body responds to me even when your mind knows it shouldn’t.
Kieran’s back arched slightly off the mattress, multiple shock-like jerks rippling through his torso and limbs in rapid succession.
A soft cry escaped his lips as his nervous system misfired in patterns that spoke of a brain under incredible strain.
His eyes snapped open, unseeing and glassy, before fluttering closed again.
The episode passed on its own, leaving Kieran gasping softly in his sleep, one hand unconsciously reaching toward Vale.
The trust implicit in that gesture made something uncomfortable shift in Vale’s chest. Kieran didn’t even know he was here, but he sought Vale’s presence even while sleeping.
Vale’s phone lit up with another call—Jessica from Sony this time, probably with the same questions Nox asked.
He declined without answering. Word was spreading faster than he anticipated.
Soon there would be pressure to produce more content, to capitalize on viral momentum before attention moved to the next internet sensation.
Let them wait. Let them hunger for what we’re creating.
Vale studied the lyrics again, already planning how he’d extract this particular performance from Kieran’s fragile psyche.
“Temple of Flesh“ required different methods than “Poison Saviors”—less about breaking down defenses, more about building up the endurance needed to let someone see the beautiful wreckage Vale would make of him. More about making Kieran understand that what happened in the basement wasn’t just pain—it was worship.
Tomorrow we’ll work on your relationship with divinity. I’m going to teach you to see yourself as holy, beautiful boy.
His phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number:
Unknown
Saw the video. Recognize the basement. We need to talk.
-A
Vale stared at the message, his pulse quickening as possibilities narrowed to a single, unwelcome conclusion. Alex. The project Vale had released when his methods yielded diminishing returns and unwanted attachments. The one who should have stayed forgotten.
You should have taken what I gave you and disappeared.
Vale deleted the message without responding, then moved to adjust Kieran’s position on the bed, carefully arranging him to prevent aspiration if another cluster of seizures hit. His hand lingered on Kieran longer than necessary, his thumb tracing his collarbone.
He should leave and let Kieran have some illusion that he had space Vale didn’t occupy. But the need to watch him sleep, to see every twitch and breath and unconscious gesture, was as compulsive as the need to break him.
Sweet dreams, my heretical angel.
Vale settled into the chair beside the bed, notebook in his lap, already planning exactly how he’d teach Kieran to perform his own communion.