Chapter 41
What began as gentle whispers grew to symphonies of hurt; Every cut a small reminder of exactly what he's worth…
Kieran
The guitar strings felt wrong beneath Kieran’s fingertips, too sharp and foreign despite years of calluses that should have made the contact familiar.
He sat cross-legged on the living room floor, surrounded by crumpled pages and false starts, while Vale worked on his laptop on the couch behind him.
Focus. Just focus on the words.
His left hand moved to his face, his fingers finding his eyelashes and pulling until he felt the sharp sting of hair separating from skin. The small pain was grounding, controllable, unlike everything else spiraling through his mind. Then he pulled again. And again.
Stop it. He’ll notice if you keep doing that.
But it felt like releasing pressure from a vessel ready to explode. Kieran dropped the eyelashes in his guitar to hide the evidence and reached for another.
Vale’s fingers stilled on the laptop and reached to card through his hair.
It should have been comforting, but it only reminded Kieran of how thoroughly he’d disappointed the one person whose approval meant everything.
Vale had been patient and kind, making breakfast and checking his bandaged hands and he didn’t mention the basement incident—which somehow burned the shame hotter than anger would have.
He forgave me. He said he forgave me. So why does everything still feel wrong?
The stupid fucking song stared back at him from his notebook, half-finished verses mocking him with their emotional distance. Every attempt felt like describing colors to someone who’d been born blind—technically accurate but fundamentally missing the experiential truth.
The words were right, pulled from that morning with brutal honesty. But they sat on the page like museum pieces, preserved and lifeless. When Kieran tried to sing them, his voice carried no conviction, no authentic understanding of what he’d written.
The aura started as it always did, a metallic taste creeping across his tongue while the edges of his vision began to shimmer with warning lights.
Kieran bit down on his inner lip, trying to ground himself through it.
His head felt stuffed with cotton, his thoughts moving too slowly through neural pathways that sparked and misfired without rhythm.
Don’t tell him. He’s already worried enough about you. You’re already enough of a burden. It’s just a focal. Breathe.
Vale’s email notifications chimed softly above him, the sound of a productive person managing a successful career while Kieran sat surrounded by failure and picked his eyelashes bald. The inadequacy felt familiar, comfortable in its reliability.
At least disappointment is consistent. At least I know how to be a failure.
“This l-line doesn’t work,” Kieran mumbled, crossing out another verse with angry strokes that tore through the paper. The violence felt good, like an eyelash pulling but more dramatic. He pressed harder, the pen tip breaking through to score the page underneath.
None of it works. Nothing I write makes sense because I don’t understand what I’m writing about.
Vale’s hand stilled in his hair. “What’s not working, sweetheart?”
The endearment hurt, warm and gentle and completely undeserved. Sweetheart. Like I’m precious instead of broken. Like I’m someone worth patience instead of someone who needs correction.
“The b-bridge. The whole st-structure. It’s—” A sob bubbled out of him without warning, frustration and exhaustion and the persistent metallic taste combining into overwhelming helplessness. “I c-can’t make it honest. I’m d-disappointing you again.”
Again. Always again. When will I stop being such a fucking disappointment?
The tears came harder, ugly and desperate and completely inappropriate for someone who was supposed to be a professional artist working on his debut album. Kieran tried to stop them, tried to swallow the sobs, but the effort only worsened everything.
I’m crying over a song. Over words on a page. Like a child having a tantrum because he can’t make the pieces fit.
Vale’s laptop closed with a soft click, both arms wrapping around Kieran from behind in an embrace that felt like pity. “You’re not disappointing me. Creative blocks happen. Work on something else for a while. Just breathe.”
How can you be so kind when I keep failing at everything you’ve taught me? When I can’t even write a simple song without falling apart?
Kieran let his head fall sideways against Vale’s thigh, still sniffling as Vale’s phone began ringing.
He closed his eyes as he heard Vale answer, using the gentle rhythm of fingers stroking his hair to time his breaths and force himself to calm down.
His mouth still tasted like metal and his ears were making everything sound hollow.
Just focus on the song. Just make it work.
Why can’t I make it work?
The question circled through his fuzzy mind like water down a drain.
Every other song they’d created together came to him so easy.
Words and melodies poured out of him, they kept him up at night, needing to be put to page.
There were still pages in the notepad smeared with blood that he would just wipe away so he could keep writing because it felt like he would die if he didn’t put them somewhere.
Kieran opened his eyes and stared at his notebook on the ground.
It’s because I fought too hard.
That’s why the song doesn’t work.
Kieran hated the thought, hated how much sense it made. He could practically hear Vale’s voice in his head, his hands on his throat, whispering in ears that felt like they were filled with water:
Intimacy is give and take…
That’s what the problem was. He didn’t give. He just lay there, terrified, fighting, and took.
I hate that this makes sense. I hate that I understand what needs to happen.
He looked up at Vale, surprised to see Vale looking down at him. Vale shifted his attention back towards the phone, his hand reaching to push up nonexistent glasses before he caught himself.
Kieran’s eyes drifted downward, fixing on Vale’s jeans—the faded denim that hugged his thighs, the simple metal button at the fly catching the light. He stared at it, warring with himself, the internal debate raging like a storm in his broken mind.
You have to give. This is what you need to fix it.
No.
Yes…
I have to.
His hand shook as he reached out, his fingers fumbling with the button until it popped open with a soft snap. He slid his palm up under Vale’s shirt, feeling the hard ridges of toned abs beneath warm skin, the muscles contracting slightly under his touch.
He hadn’t paid attention to how sculpted Vale was before, when they were in bed together.
Why didn’t I notice?
He felt Vale tense beneath him—his body going rigid for a split second—but there was no move to end the call or push Kieran away.
Kieran couldn’t even look up, his eyes fixed on the zipper as his heart pounded.
I can do this. I can figure it out. For the song. Don’t think, just experience.
He was two seconds from talking himself back into sanity, from pulling away and pretending this impulse never happened, but the thrill hit him—unwanted yet undeniable, electric, stirring low in his belly.
Vale parted his legs wider without a word, allowing Kieran to shift and settle fully between them, turning to face his groin.
Fingers threaded through Kieran’s hair, not pulling, but more like a gentle encouragement that sent shivers down his spine.
The touch grounded him, pulling him deeper into the moment as Vale’s voice droned on above.
Kieran tugged the zipper down, hands trembling as he freed Vale from the denim. His fingers wrapped around heated flesh, tentative and uncertain, watching Vale’s stomach muscles contract at the contact.
He leaned in, his breath ghosting over the head of Vale’s hard cock, and Vale’s hand tightened slightly in his hair—not forcing, just responding. Kieran took that as permission, as encouragement, and closed his lips around the head.
I thought it tasted bad before…but this is nice. Salty and warm and sweet.
Vale seemed unaffected at first, but as Kieran took more into his mouth, swirling his tongue along the shaft—panting breaths interrupted his words. “...We’ll finalize details tomorrow... Yes, talk soon.” The phone clicked off, and Vale’s voice dropped to a husky command: “Look at me, beautiful.”
Kieran obeyed, lifting his watery eyes to meet Vale’s, his mouth still full, his lips stretched around it as he kept going with slow, deliberate sucks that made his cheeks hollow.
Vale guided Kieran’s head down with both hands, pushing deeper with firm pressure as he sucked a deep breath through his teeth.
Kieran felt Vale’s cock hit the back of his throat and he gagged.
He tried to pull back to catch his breath as Vale triggered another heave, his eyes and nose leaking profusely as he pushed Kieran down again and again. Maybe this was a mistake—can’t breathe, throat burning, but he’s looking at me like I’m everything.
“That’s it, just a little more, sweetheart. So good, you’re doing so…mmm—.” Vale’s hips bucked slightly as he held Kieran’s head down. “Fuck—I’m going to—”
Vale moaned and shuddered as his release hit—hot spurts filling Kieran’s mouth, the taste salty and overwhelming.
But Vale’s hand stayed firm in Kieran’s hair, holding him in place, not letting him pull away. Kieran tried to lift his head, confused—it was over, wasn’t it?—but the pressure remained steady.
Why won’t he let go? Is this part of the intimacy? Am I supposed to stay like this?
His mind spun with questions, trying to understand, trying to figure out what was expected of him. The hand in his hair wasn’t cruel, just insistent, keeping his mouth where it was even as he tried to pull back.
But then another aura rolled in like storm clouds. The questions faded, resistance dissolving into haze. He stopped fighting the gentle pressure and got comfortable against Vale’s thigh, his cheek pressing into the denim like a strange, intimate anchor in the oncoming storm.
The confusion about why he was being held could wait. Everything could wait. The fog was here now, wrapping around his thoughts, and all that mattered was the warmth of Vale’s hand in his hair and the solid presence of his body as the world started to slip away at the edges.