Chapter 20
When the world is fast asleep, he thanks the hands that hurt him for the promises they keep…
Kieran
Consciousness returned in layers, like swimming up through thick honey toward a distant light. Not all at once—it came and went, pulling him under and releasing him in cycles he couldn’t track.
Kieran’s first awareness was warmth—not the clinical warmth of hospital blankets, but something alive and present that seemed to radiate safety.
The second awareness was the gentle pressure of fingers in his hair, stroking with rhythmic patience that suggested they’d been there for hours. Days, maybe. Time felt unreliable.
Safe. Whatever this is, it’s safe.
The thought came before memory, before context, before the ability to identify the source of comfort.
Kieran found himself leaning into the touch, seeking more of whatever was making the world feel manageable again.
His cheek pressed against something solid and warm—fabric over muscle, the steady rhythm of breathing that wasn’t his own.
The fog pulled him under again.
When he surfaced next, awareness came with a little clarity. He was in a bed.
And he wasn’t alone.
Vale was in the bed with him. Not sitting beside it in a chair, not perched on the edge—fully in the bed, stretched out beside Kieran with one arm around him, the other hand gently rubbing up and down his side.
The realization should have alarmed him.
It should have sent him scrambling back, demanding explanations.
But his body was heavy, unresponsive, still recovering from the familiar ache of a tonic-clonic seizure.
And Vale’s presence felt... safe. Warm. Real in ways that cut through the post-ictal haze.
“Vale?” The name escaped without conscious decision, rough and uncertain.
“I’m here,” came the response, his voice soft in a way that felt unfamiliar but not wrong.
Kieran’s vision sharpened gradually, bringing Vale’s face into focus.
When did this happen? How long have we been like this?
But the questions felt distant, muffled by fog that made thinking akin to walking through quicksand.
The important thing was that Vale’s arms were around him, solid and steady, and for the first time in weeks Kieran’s body felt like it belonged to him instead of epilepsy or fear or basement lessons.
“What hap-happened?” Kieran asked despite already knowing the answer. This moment felt fragile, precious in ways he couldn’t name. Vale being gentle without agenda, holding him without expectation, offering comfort that felt genuine rather than calculated.
“You had a seizure at the end of the performance,” Vale said. “You’ve been drifting in and out for hours. The doctor came and adjusted your medication.”
Hours. Multiple hours. Time he couldn’t account for.
Performance.
The word triggered flashes of memory—bright lights, cameras, the weight of the guitar in his hands. Moving around the basement. Singing about temples built on fault lines with an aching jaw and sore lips.
“D-did w-we get what w-we needed?” Kieran heard himself ask, and immediately hated the question.
Why do I care? Why is my first thought about whether the seizure ruined his plans?
Vale’s grip tightened. “We got something extraordinary. But that doesn’t matter right now. You matter right now.”
Kieran pressed closer to Vale’s chest, seeking more of whatever this was—kindness without conditions, care without curriculum.
His medical alert bracelet caught on Vale’s shirt, but instead of adjusting it away, Vale’s fingers found the metal and traced the red letters.
“The doctor thinks your stress levels have been too high. We need to be more careful.”
We. He said we.
“I’m sorry,” Kieran whispered, though he wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for. The seizure? The disrupted filming? The way he was clinging to Vale like a frightened child?
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Vale said firmly. “Nothing. Do you understand me?”
Kieran nodded against his chest. For a moment, the world felt simple—just two people, one offering comfort the other desperately needed.
Another memory clicked back into place.
The final lesson before the performance.
Kieran’s body went rigid against Vale’s chest as the full scope of what happened before the cameras rolled again rushed back in and he began shaking so hard he thought he would vibrate out of his skin. He hurt me. He used me and pretended it was about authenticity. He just wanted to get off.
“Hey,” Vale murmured, feeling the change in Kieran’s breathing. “What’s wrong? Are you in pain? Or is this a focal seizure? Talk to me, sweetheart.” The concern sounded genuine, it felt genuine, but memory was providing context that made Kieran’s stomach turn.
This is what he does. This is the pattern. Hurt, then heal, then hurt again.
But Kieran couldn’t pull away from the warmth of Vale’s embrace. His body was still recovering from neurological chaos, still craving the safety that Vale’s presence provided. The comfort was real even if the motives were questionable.
“Kieran?” Vale’s voice carried genuine concern now, probably reading the tension in Kieran’s posture. “Talk to me. What’s going on in your head?”
Everything. Nothing. I remember what you did and I hate you and I can’t make myself move away from you.
“When c-c-can I see the video?” Kieran asked instead to Vale’ chest.
He felt Vale’s breathing change, tension creeping into muscles that had been relaxed moments before. “It’s already been posted,” Vale said. “But there’s something you need to know.”
Kieran pulled back slightly, hearing something in Vale’s tone that made his stomach flutter with anxiety. “What?”
“Eliza kept filming,” Vale said quietly. “During the seizure. She... she posted the footage.”
The words hit like ice water. Kieran stared at Vale’s face, searching for some indication that he’d misunderstood. “She p-posted what?”
“The performance leading up to the collapse. And...” Vale’s jaw tightened. “The seizure.”
No. No, no, no.
“People saw m-me—” Kieran couldn’t finish the sentence, horror stealing his ability to form words. Not just the performance, but the seizure? And it was broadcast to strangers who had no right to witness something so private…
“I-I-I need t-to see it.”
Vale was quiet for a long moment, then said, “It’s complicated.”
I don’t care. Kieran needed to see what the world had seen, needed to understand what version of himself was now public property. He met Vale’s eyes for the first time since consciousness returned. “I n-need to see it.”
Vale’s expression shifted through several emotions too quickly to decipher. “Maybe later. When you’re feeling stronger—”
“Now.” Kieran spoke with more strength than he’d felt in days. “Pl-please. I need to kn-know.”
After a moment, Vale reached for his phone with obvious reluctance.
The screen lit up with notifications—missed calls, text messages, and endless social media alerts.
Vale navigated to the video, his thumb hovering over the play button.
“Remember,” he said softly, “this doesn’t define you. This is just one moment.”
Vale pressed play, and Kieran watched himself transform on screen.
He watched the way his entire body engaged with the song, turning the shame he felt in that moment into art, the trauma into transcendence.
It was devastating, beautiful, completely authentic in ways that made his chest ache with complex pride.
Then came the collapse. The way his eyes went blank and fixed, his body going rigid as consciousness fled. The chaos of voices, Eliza’s shaky camera work, and underneath it all was Vale’s voice, soft and desperate: “Stay with me, sweetheart. I’m right here. You’re going to be okay.”
Kieran stared at the view count—over 600,000 in just a few hours—and felt something like vertigo at the scope of exposure.
“The c-comments?” he asked.
Vale hesitated. “Some of them are... not kind.”
“Show me.”
The scroll through responses was a lesson in human nature’s complexity. Praise for the performance mixed with speculation about the seizure’s authenticity. Medical professionals debating whether it was real along side conspiracy theories about publicity stunts and choreographed collapses.
This pisses me off as someone with epilepsy. Don’t fake seizures for views.
The words hit like a fist to the gut. Someone with epilepsy. Someone who knew what it felt like to lose control of their own body, to wake up disoriented and ashamed, to live with the constant fear of when the next episode might strike—and they thought Kieran was acting.
The timing is too convenient. Right after the most emotional line? Come on.
Kieran’s hands shook as he read accusation after accusation, strangers on the internet turning his reality into debate fodder.
But it was the comments from other people with epilepsy that cut deepest—the ones who should have recognized the realness of what happened, who should have understood the violation of having a seizure streamed to the world.
The violation that began with Vale making him kneel in the basement was complete, and each comment making the taste that lingered in his mouth more bitter than the last.
“They th-think I’m lying,” he whispered.
“They don’t know you.” Vale pulled him back against his chest, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “They don’t understand what you live with.”
Kieran felt the mounting anger drain out of him, leaving only weariness in its wake. He was too tired to be furious. Too tired to fight. Too tired to do anything but exist in this moment where someone was holding him.
I should pull away. I should be disgusted. I should demand answers about what happened before the final take.
But he was so tired. Tired of hurting, tired of fear, tired of being strong enough to resist something that felt good even if it was wrong. Right now, in this moment, Vale’s presence felt like the only solid thing in the world.
It’s okay to do this just for now. Just until I’m strong enough to find a way out.
“Can w-we stay like this?” Kieran asked, his voice small in the quiet room. “Ju-just for a little while?”
Vale’s arms tightened around him. “As long as you need, sweetheart. I’m not going anywhere.”
Kieran closed his eyes and melted into Vale. He’d deal with the contradictions later, when he had the strength to untangle what it meant that the person who’d hurt him most was also the only one holding him together.