Chapter 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.
“Sweetheart,” Vale purred, kissing his forehead, “you’re shaking.”
Kieran’s laugh came out strangled. “I’m t-terrified.”
“Of what, specifically?”
Everything. The people who’ll see through whatever facade we’re presenting. The possibility that someone might recognize what you’ve done to me.
“I don’t belong in there,” Kieran said instead. “I’m a st-street performer who got l-lucky with a few viral videos.”
Vale’s hand found his fingers tracing over his gauze-wrapped knuckles. “You are a real artist, Kier. You belong in there.”
Through the window, Kieran watched another group enter the venue—women in designer dresses, men in suits that probably cost more than most cars, all of them carrying themselves like they’d never doubted their right to occupy space.
They’re going to know. They’ll take one look at me and they’ll know something’s wrong.
But underneath the terror was the possibility of being seen as legitimate. The chance to exist in professional spaces as something other than charity case or curiosity.
I want this.
His stomach churned with something between desire and nausea.
He wanted to meet other artists, to discuss creative processes and lyrics and the technical aspects of performance he’d never had educated conversations about.
But the wanting felt like betrayal—of his former self, of whatever remaining sanity insisted this entire situation was fundamentally wrong.
If I go in there, I’m accepting this. Accepting what he’s made me into.
“I can’t de-decide,” Kieran whispered, “if I should r-run as fast as I c-can while screaming for help, or if I should n-never leave your side again.”
“The choice feels overwhelming because you’re trying to make it from a place of fear instead of trust.” Vale’s grip on his hand tightened. “You don’t have to decide anything except whether you want to walk into that building with me tonight.”
“What if I have a s-s-seizure in there?” Kieran asked, grasping for concrete concerns that felt safer than examining why Vale’s hand holding his made him feel better. “What if someone asks questions I c-can’t answer?”
“Then I’ll take care of you, just like I always do.” Vale leaned closer, his lips ghosting over Kieran’s ear. “You just have to trust me.”
For some reason I do…
The outside world felt dangerous, unpredictable, full of people who might hurt him in ways Vale hadn’t thought of yet.
At least I know what Vale wants from me.
“Will you st-stay close?” Kieran asked, hating how small his voice sounded.
Vale kissed his forehead again. “I’ll stay by your side, beautiful boy. Tonight, you’re going to know exactly what it feels like to be recognized as the artist you’ve always been meant to be.”
Kieran nodded, not trusting himself to speak again. The door handle was cold under his gauze-wrapped fingers, but Vale’s hand on his back felt warm and steady—his barbed anchor in a storm that raged so long he’d forgotten what calm weather felt like.
I can do this. Vale doesn’t lie to me. If he says I belong in there, then he has to be right.
They stepped out into the evening air and Kieran’s bare feet found the cold pavement—it was solid, real, connected to a world beyond a place he called home in his head before he reminded himself it was his prison.
But instead of moving toward the entrance, Vale guided him toward the back of the limo.
“One more thing,” Vale said, retrieving a key from his jacket pocket.
The trunk opened to reveal a guitar case. Vale opened the clasps to display a Martin D-41 that caught the streetlight like polished amber.
Holy shit.
Kieran’s breath caught in his throat. The wood grain was perfect, intricate patterns showing decades of careful craftsmanship. An abalone inlay traced the rosette in delicate patterns and the strings looked like they’d never been touched, pristine and waiting.
“It’s yours.”
Kieran’s hands shook as he reached for the instrument, his fingers barely grazing the fretboard before pulling back like he’d been burned.
“I can’t—” He shook his head, taking a step back from the trunk. “I c-can’t take this.”
Vale’s brow furrowed, the slightest pout forming on his face. “Why not?”
“I’ll ruin it,” Kieran whispered, tears spilling over before he could stop them. “I’ll break this one too because that’s what I do. I’m—I’m not worth this. I’m not worth anything this expensive or beautiful or—”
The sobs came ugly and desperate, like they always did. His shoulders shook with the force of them as his gauze-wrapped hands came up to cover his face, like he could hide from his own inadequacy.
Vale’s arms were around him immediately, pulling him back toward the limo’s open door and back onto the leather seats. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? Talk to me.”
“I d-destroyed the last one,” Kieran gasped between sobs, words fracturing around his stutter. “I’ll pr-probably ruin this one too, b-because I-I-I-I ruin everything—”
“Kieran.” Vale’s hands framed his face, his thumbs wiping away the tears. “You didn’t ruin anything. You created art.”
“I’m broken,” Kieran choked out. “I’ve always been br-broken and br-broken things b-break other things and I don’t—I can’t—”
His mind was spiraling, thoughts fragmenting in a thousand different directions. Every inadequacy, every moment of feeling worthless, every time someone had looked at him with pity or dismissal or carefully masked disgust—it all crashed over him at once.
He was nothing. Worse than nothing. He was a void. A black hole, pulling things in and destroying them because that’s what black holes did.
It hurt so bad. Knowing what he was, what he couldn’t change about himself.
It hurt worse than being told his parents were dead.
Worse than the aches of waking up alone after seizing.
Worse than Vale’s belt. Tonight wasn’t supposed to hurt, he was supposed to enjoy himself and be a real musician, and he couldn’t even do that right.
I need it to stop hurting.
If I kiss him, the thoughts will stop hurting for a minute...
The realization cut through his panic and made him want to throw up. When Vale kissed him before, the world narrowed to just physical sensation—to the taste and warmth and feeling of being wanted even if that wanting came wrapped in violence.
Fuck it.
Kieran surged forward, closing the distance between them with a desperate need.
His lips found Vale’s with graceless urgency.
Vale made a surprised sound against his mouth before responding with the focused intensity that dissolved Kieran’s thoughts exactly like he’d hoped.
Hands found his hair, tilted his head with careful control, and suddenly the panic was distant.
Manageable. Buried under the taste of someone who knew exactly how to make his brain shut the fuck up.
“That’s it,” Vale panted against his lips. “Let me take care of you.”
The words should have triggered every alarm Kieran had left.
They should have reminded him that Vale’s care came with a price tag written in his own blood and broken boundaries.
But his mind had gone blessedly blank, focused only on the warmth of Vale’s body and the way his touch turned everything else to static.
Vale pushed him down against the leather seat, blanketing Kieran’s body with his own weight.
The pressure was grounding—almost comforting in its solidity—and Kieran wanted more.
He wanted to feel pinned, real, here instead of fracturing into panic.
His hips rolled up without his permission, seeking friction, and Vale groaned against his mouth.
“Fuck,” Vale breathed, pulling his tie loose with one hand while the other stayed firm on Kieran’s throat. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”
The question felt rhetorical, but Kieran found himself shaking his head—genuinely uncertain.
Vale’s desire felt real in these moments.
Not calculated or pedagogical or part of some methodical lesson plan.
Just raw want that matched the heat pooling low in Kieran’s stomach, the arousal he kept pretending didn’t exist even as his body proved him a liar.
“Maybe we don’t go in at all,” Vale murmured against Kieran’s jaw, his lips trailing lower to find his gauze-wrapped throat. “Maybe we go home and I show you exactly how beautiful you are when you stop fighting what you want.”
The suggestion sent liquid heat through Kieran’s veins, his body responding with enthusiasm his mind couldn’t match.
Vale’s hand slid lower, fingers teasing at his waistband, and suddenly the limo felt too small.
Too warm. Too full of terrifying possibilities that Kieran’s body was already leaning into while his mind screamed that this was exactly how Vale wanted him—pliant, desperate, using physical sensation to escape the horror of his own reality.
I’m using him to cope with him.
The thought should have been sobering.
Instead, Kieran arched into Vale’s touch and let himself drown.
“We should—” Kieran gasped as Vale’s fingers found the button on his pants. “We should go in.”
Vale’s movements stilled, his face lifting to study Kieran’s expression in the dim light filtering through the tinted windows. “Are you sure?”
No.
But Kieran nodded, hands pressing against Vale’s chest to create space between them. “I want to go in. I want to m-meet other artists. I want to feel normal.”
For a moment, Vale’s expression flickered with something that might have been frustration or disappointment. “Of course you do,” Vale said with a smile.
It didn’t reach his eyes.