Chapter 35 #2
“We prefer solitary spaces,” Vale said, stroking Kieran’s knuckles beneath the table. “Environments where emotional honesty feels safe. Big studios can make vulnerability feel performative rather than authentic.”
The conversation flowed more naturally after that, with Kieran growing visibly more comfortable as they discussed musical influences, songwriting process, the challenge of maintaining authenticity in an industry that rewarded manufactured emotion.
Vale noted how Kieran’s voice strengthened when talking about his songwriting process, how the stutter eased slightly when passion overrode anxiety.
But then Marissa’s expression shifted, becoming more serious. “We have to address something that came up in comments on your ‘Temple of Flesh’ video. There was some speculation about... well, about whether the medical episode was real or performed for effect.”
Vale felt Kieran go rigid beside him, every muscle tensing, and his gaze dropped. But his hand remained steady in Kieran’s, his thumb continuing its soothing rhythm across his knuckles.
Breathe, sweetheart. This is your chance to set the record straight. Find your voice and use it.
The contact seemed to ground Kieran, his breathing evening out. When he looked directly into the camera, his eyes were bright with unshed tears.
“You pr-probably noticed I have a st-stutter,” Kieran said quietly, “b-but you haven’t mentioned it. P-people love to spec-c-culate about the interesting stuff, but ignore things like st-stuttering b-because it’s not... aesthetic.”
Vale’s heart clenched with fierce protectiveness as tears slid down Kieran’s cheeks, visible even through the careful shadows they’d arranged.
“I’ve h-had epilepsy since I was two,” Kieran continued, his voice gaining strength despite the tears. “It’s n-not art, it’s n-not aesthetic choice—it affects every aspect of m-my life. I-I shouldn’t have t-to publish my medical records for p-people to show c-compassion.”
The silence that followed was profound, both hosts visibly uncomfortable by the raw honesty in Kieran’s voice.
Maybe they were expecting a deflection, or outright hostility.
Vale squeezed his hand beneath the table, overwhelmed—pride at Kieran’s articulate self-advocacy, protective fury at the strangers who questioned his authenticity, and something deeper felt too large to process in the moment.
“I’m so sorry,” Marissa began. “That was thoughtless speculation, and you’re absolutely right—you shouldn’t have to defend legitimate medical conditions.”
Kieran nodded, wiping tears away with his free hand while maintaining his grip on Vale beneath the table. The vulnerability was devastating, and Vale knew this moment would reshape public perception of Thorn from mysterious artist to someone deserving protection.
The interview continued for another twenty minutes, but the energy had shifted completely. Both hosts treated Kieran with careful respect, focusing on his artistic process rather than probing for personal details that might cause additional pain.
When they finally ended the call, Kieran’s head dropped forward onto the kitchen table with a hollow thud, his shoulders shaking as sobs tore from his throat. Not from relief—it was something deeper, more devastating. Crying that came from places too raw to touch.
Vale’s hand found his neck immediately, fingers settling over his pulse with familiar possessiveness, but the touch didn’t calm him the way it usually did.
“You were extraordinary,” Vale whispered, trying to anchor him with praise. “Absolutely extraordinary. You handled that perfectly.”
But Kieran’s crying only intensified, words tumbling out between gasps: “I d-don’t know why I w-wanted to be a musician. I’m n-n-not cut out f-fo-or this. Maybe—maybe this whole thing is j-just some prank. Maybe I’m t-terrible and the internet’s m-making a joke out of m-me.”
Oh, sweetheart. No…
Vale tried encouragement, tried validation, tried comfort that usually pulled Kieran back from emotional spirals. Nothing worked. He was drowning in self-doubt despite having just delivered the most articulate, compelling interview Vale could have imagined.
He needs something different. Something real.
Without planning, without his usual calculation, Vale began to sing. Not one of Kieran’s songs, not anything from their sessions, but something old and gentle—a folk melody his father sang when he was young:
“Oh, the summer time is coming; And the trees are sweetly blooming…”
His voice was untrained, nothing like Kieran’s, but it carried a vulnerability Vale rarely allowed himself to show, his face growing hot as he continued. He didn’t sing for people. People sang for him…
But Kieran’s sobbing quieted, his shoulders still shaking as Vale’s voice filled the kitchen, gentle and undemanding:
“And the wild mountain thyme; Grows around the blooming heather.”
When Kieran finally lifted his head, his eyes were red-rimmed but focused, staring at Vale with wonder. “That was beautiful,” he whispered. “Your voice—I’ve never heard you sing before.”
Vale felt suddenly self-conscious in a way he hadn’t experienced in years. “It’s nothing. Just something my father used to—”
But Kieran was leaning forward, one hand reaching up to touch the edge of Vale’s mask with trembling fingers. “Can I...?”
Vale nodded, his throat tight with unexpected emotion as Kieran carefully lifted the mask away from his face.
When Kieran’s lips found his, there was no desperation.
No fear threading through need like thorns through silk.
No complex negotiation of power and surrender, no dance of predator and prey.
Just soft exploration—as tentative as the first unfurling of petals after winter, sweet as something blooming in darkness that had never known it could grow toward light.
Vale made no move to deepen the kiss. To take control.
To guide Kieran’s mouth into the precise shape he’d orchestrated in a thousand fantasies.
He simply let Kieran set the tempo and dynamics; letting himself be the instrument for once—resonating with each gentle press of his lips, each soft sigh that escaped between them like music he’d never thought to compose.
This was what surrender tasted like. Not Kieran’s surrender, but Vale’s own—terrifying and exquisite. Like every defense he’d built over thirty-seven years of delusional isolation crumbling beneath something as simple as Kieran choosing to touch him without coercion.
Kieran’s hand found the back of Vale’s neck, his fingers threading through his hair with unbearable gentleness, and Vale felt his carefully constructed control dissolve like sugar in water, into a sweet molecular destruction he didn’t recognize.
His stomach twisted with heat that felt too close to nausea, his breath catching on something that might have been a sound he’d never made before, his entire body trembling with the effort of not taking, of letting this moment exist as Kieran’s gift rather than Vale’s theft.
This is what it feels like when he chooses me.
Like a rose that bloomed without pruning. Without violence. Without any cultivation except time and tenderness.
The realization felt like standing at the edge of something vast and holy—an abyss that looked suspiciously like grace.
When they finally broke apart, Kieran’s gaze dropped to his lap. “Thank you,” he whispered. “For the song. For... for being gentle when I needed it.”
Vale pulled Kieran into an embrace, swallowing hard.
This is real.
What we have is real.