Chapter 36
Mind's a fucking battlefield, thoughts like razor wire; Every step I take just feeds into the fire…
For five nights now, Kieran slept with the notebook pressed against his chest like a shield, terrified Vale would read what he’d been working on while he was vulnerable. Five nights of dreams that shifted between nightmare and fantasy until he couldn’t tell which was which anymore.
Sometimes Vale forced him—his hands rough, his voice cold with command, down in the basement—and Kieran woke, gasping, with fear and unwanted arousal tangled so completely he wanted to light himself on fire.
Sometimes Vale was gentle in those dreams—tender touches, soft words, the gentle version of Vale making love to him like they were normal people in a normal relationship, like Kieran was someone who deserved kindness.
Those dreams left him aching with a longing for something that couldn’t ever exist.
Sometimes the dreams were pure passion—nothing gentle, nothing violent, just desperate need and gasping want, Vale’s hands and mouth and the kind of pleasure that felt like being devoured.
Those were the worst, because Kieran woke up hard and confused, hating his body for responding to fantasies about the person who’d broken him.
The song had started as an attempt to untangle the mess in his head. “Safe Distance”—an ironic title for lyrics about wanting to close the gap while being terrified of what would happen if he did.
“Sometimes I dream of melting into someone else’s warmth;
But my mind reminds me that my mind’s been hurt before…”
Every verse felt like a confession. Every line exposed thoughts Kieran couldn’t admit out loud—not to Vale, not even to himself.
The wondering if his desire was real or just conditioning.
The question of whether Vale’s affection was genuine or calculated manipulation.
The shame of wanting someone who destroyed every boundary Kieran tried to maintain.
“But I don’t want to die inside this prison made of doubt;
Locked away from pleasure where the light don’t shine…”
He’d been working on it for days, sneaking time when Vale was occupied, writing and crossing out and rewriting until the pages looked like a war zone. Trying to figure out if “wanting it” even meant anything when every desire had been shaped by months of lessons designed to break him.
Is there real affection between us? Or am I misinterpreting control as care, possession as love?
The notebook stayed pressed against his chest every night because he knew what would happen if Vale found it. The same thing that happened last time—gentle manipulation disguised as concern, boundary crossing framed as an intimacy lesson, Kieran’s private thoughts weaponized against him.
But on the sixth morning, Kieran reached for his notebook the instant he woke—the familiar weight against his chest, the one private space where he could work through contradictions without having to explain them.
His hand found only empty sheets.
No.
Panic shot through him like electricity, jolting him fully awake to find Vale sitting on the edge of the bed, spiral-bound pages spread across his lap.
Morning light caught the angles of his face as he read, his expression soft but with calculation lurking beneath—like satisfaction barely concealed behind affection.
“Give it b-back.” The words came out strangled, desperate, as Kieran scrambled upright in bed. “That’s—that’s private, you c-can’t just—”
He lunged for the notebook, his hands shaking with adrenaline and humiliation, but Vale’s reflexes were faster. One palm pressed against Kieran’s chest, pushing him back toward the headboard.
“Careful,” Vale said, not even looking up from the pages. “You don’t want to damage something this special.”
Oh god, he knows. He knows what I’ve been writing.
“P-please,” Kieran whispered, throat tight. “I wasn’t—those aren’t f-finished. They’re just fragments, they d-don’t mean anything.”
“Don’t they?” Vale’s thumb traced the edge of a page, and the reverence in the gesture felt predatory rather than respectful. “Some of your best work is in here, Kier. Raw, honest. Exactly the kind of vulnerability I’ve been waiting to see from you.”
Waiting. Like he knew this would happen eventually.
“This one particularly caught my attention.” Vale turned the notebook around with a deliberate slowness, revealing the chaotic page Kieran hoped would remain illegible. “‘Safe Distance’. Tell me about this song, sweetheart.”
Kieran’s gaze landed on the verses about fear and need, about being caught between longing and terror, about wanting things his mind couldn’t accept. Heat flooded his cheeks as he stared at his own words—thoughts he’d tried to exorcise by writing them down, proof that his brain was wired wrong.
“I d-don’t know,” Kieran said, and part of it felt true. “It’s n-nothing. Just—random words that d-don’t go anywhere.”
“Random words.” Vale’s expression was fond, patient.
“Yes. They d-don’t mean anything sp-specific.”
“Hmm.” Vale closed the notebook and set it aside. “That’s disappointing, Kier. I was hoping you’d developed enough trust to be honest with me by now.”
Vale’s hand found Kieran’s throat—not threatening, just intimate, the way he touched during their quiet moments together—pulse beneath his thumb, windpipe beneath his palm, a declaration of affection rather than menace.
“Let me ask you again,” Vale began, “what is this song about?”
Kieran swallowed hard. “I—they’re just th-thoughts I can’t control. Intrusive thoughts.”
“Intrusive thoughts?”
“Yes.” Kieran felt desperate to make him understand. “Sometimes my b-brain just—it thinks things I d-don’t actually want. Because of everything that happened. In the b-basement. It’s just—it’s damage. Not real f-feelings.”
Vale’s thumb pressed slightly harder against Kieran’s pulse point. “Oh, sweetheart. You really don’t understand yourself yet, do you?”
The condescension in his tone made Kieran’s stomach drop.
“They’re not intrusive thoughts,” Vale continued in the way one might explain something obvious to a child. “You’re just afraid to admit what you actually want. That’s normal. Expected, even.”
No.
“They c-can’t be real,” Kieran whispered. “B-b-because the things in those lyrics—th-hat’s lesson stuff. And I d-don’t w-want that lesson.” He gestured vaguely between them. “This….wh-what w-we have now is fine.”
Vale’s smile was indulgent, almost pitying. “Kieran. Sweetheart. You’ve built this artificial wall in your mind. Kissing is ‘safe,’ anything more is ‘lessons.’ But that’s just fear talking. Your body knows what it wants even when your mind is too scared to accept it.”
Kieran shook his head, as if he could will Vale’s words out of his head. Please stop, I don’t want to talk about this.
“I could help you finish it,” Vale offered, almost nonchalantly.
But Kieran could hear the hunger in his tone beneath the gentle delivery.
“This fragment has incredible potential, but it needs authentic experience to become complete. Real exploration of what it means when desire and fear become indistinguishable.”
The suggestion hit Kieran like ice water. Vale was offering another lesson—a lesson in intimacy, the final boundary crossed under the guise of artistic development and helping Kieran “understand himself.”
“No.” The word came out sharp, defensive. “N-no, I don’t n-need help with that one.”
“Are you sure? Or are you just afraid to admit you’ve been thinking about how beautiful we can be together?”
Kieran just kept shaking his head. I don’t want to talk about this. Please stop. Please drop it.
“This could be your most powerful work,” Vale continued.
“Raw and honest, exactly the kind of authenticity that separates true artists from people who just play music. And I can help you access that. I can show you that what you think of as ‘lesson territory’ is just affection you haven’t learned to accept yet. ”
He’s not offering. He’s telling me this is going to happen.
“I’m sure,” Kieran whispered, though the words shook with effort.
Vale studied his face for a long moment, his expression patient but knowing. Like someone watching a child refuse vegetables—indulgent because he knew Kieran would eventually take a bite.
“Alright. We’ll revisit this conversation,” Vale said, and it wasn’t a suggestion. “When you’re ready to stop lying to yourself about what those lyrics really mean.”
Kieran wanted to argue, to insist Vale was wrong. But the gentle certainty in Vale’s voice made him wonder—just for a moment—if maybe he was right.
The thought was terrifying.
Two hours later, Kieran sat rigid on the living room couch, Vale’s laptop balanced on his knees while Vale adjusted camera angles for their upcoming interview. The promotional materials were already circulating—Thorn’s debut full-length album, featuring viral hits alongside exclusive new tracks.
A whole album. Like I’m a real artist.
His mind kept circling back to the notebook, to Vale’s gentle insistence that Kieran’s thoughts weren’t broken. The categorization felt wrong now, uncertain in ways that made his chest tight with anxiety.
Kissing was safe. He liked kissing Vale, even when it was a little too rough. Anything more meant the basement.
But what if Vale was right? What if wanting intimacy didn’t have to mean wanting pain?
“Before we go live,” Vale said, settling beside him, “I want you to see something. There’s been a significant response to your performance with Jericho.”
The laptop screen filled with a reaction channel—two enthusiastic hosts with professional lighting. The video was titled “THORN’S SHOCKING INDUSTRY DEBUT - BLOOD, BEAUTY & brOKEN GLASS.”
The reaction video started with clips building anticipation before revealing the main event. Kieran watched himself move through the venue, saw the way cameras captured his interaction with Jericho.
Then came the performance itself.
I look different. I look like someone who belongs there.