Chapter 44
Now I embrace the empty space, erase each memory of their face…
Kieran
Three hours in the basement studio left Kieran’s abdomen burning where the TENS unit pads attached.
His throat felt like sandpaper, raw from the screaming and desperate vocal runs that the studio version of ‘ Library Card’ demanded.
His legs still trembled with residual weakness that required Vale’s support to climb the basement stairs.
Almost got it. He said we almost got it.
The words should have felt encouraging, like progress toward something worthwhile. Instead, it just meant more sessions, more lessons, more time attached to electrodes while Vale guided him toward the rage that made him destroy his guitar.
The ice pack against Kieran’s abdomen only provided minimal relief from the burning ache. Vale settled onto the couch beside him, one hand holding the ice pack in place while the other traced patterns on Kieran’s shoulder.
“Easy, sweetheart,” Vale said. “Just breathe. You did incredible work today.”
Kieran nodded, not trusting his voice. Vale’s hands were gentle as they arranged the ice pack more comfortably, and his voice carried affection that made the hatred from the basement feel wrong, misplaced.
Because there had been hatred. In the moments when the current was strongest, when his entire torso seized with agony while he tried to maintain rhythm and vocal control, there had been a space in his mind where nothing existed except undiluted hatred for Vale’s voice telling him to breathe through it and focus.
I wished he was dead. I wished I’d never met him.
The memory tightened Kieran’s chest with guilt and confusion. How could he hate someone who was holding ice against his injuries, who’d carried him upstairs when his legs wouldn’t work, who kept telling him he was good and beautiful and perfect?
He loves me. He tells me he loves me every day. This is just what it takes to create good music.
Vale’s expression shifted, his face tightening with some emotion Kieran couldn’t read. He adjusted the ice pack, fingers pressing against the cold surface with more force than necessary.
“What’s wr-wrong?” Kieran whispered, the question escaping before he could stop it.
Vale blinked, as if surfacing from somewhere distant. “The cold on my hands,” he said quietly. “It reminds me of something.”
Kieran waited, watching Vale’s face for clues about whether he should press or let it go.
“When I was thirteen, maybe fourteen—before competitions, my mother would make me practice for six, seven hours at a time. My hands would ache so badly I couldn’t sleep.
” Vale’s gaze remained distant, staring down at his hand.
“My father would bring ice water to my room in secret. I’d hold my hands under until they went numb, until the joint pain turned into something manageable. ”
“That sounds—that sounds sad.” It was an inadequate response to what Vale was telling him, but he was already stripped bare like an exposed nerve, and if he let himself think about it too hard he was worried he would burst into tears. How could Vale’s parents be so cruel to him?
“Does it?” Vale’s smile was strange, distant.
“I thought so too, at the time. But it’s what made me good at it.
Learning to push past discomfort, to understand that temporary pain serves a greater purpose.
” His eyes refocused on Kieran, warm again.
“It’s how I learned to help others make beautiful music.
How I learned what you need to access the places that matter. ”
Vale’s hand found Kieran’s hair. “You don’t talk about your parents much,” he said, quietly, almost tentatively, like it was an invitation. “Beyond what you told me that first night. You don’t talk about your foster care or about what it was like before.”
Kieran’s fingers found his left eye automatically, seeking an eyelash to pull, but Vale caught his wrist gently.
“Talk to me,” Vale said. “I want to know you. All of you.”
Maybe it was the pain still radiating through his torso, or the way Vale was looking at him with interest that felt like being seen for the first time in years, but the words started coming before he could stop them.
“They d-died when I was sixteen,” Kieran said quietly. “I t-told you that. Car accident.”
“I remember.”
“I was al-alr-already…I felt ost-ost-ostra—felt like I didn’t belong.
The epilepsy, the st-stutter. I didn’t want to be known as the k-kid with dead parents too.
” Kieran’s thumb found his bottom lip, his teeth worrying at the skin.
“So I let myself grieve, hard, for three days. And then I m-moved on.”
Vale’s hand tightened in his hair, not painfully, just present.
“It wasn’t a b-big event, in hindsight. One day I-I-I was at home, alone, and the next day they were g-gone.
No drunk dr-driver or great injustice. Ju-Just a skid on the ice and an unfortunately placed tr-tree.
” The words felt mechanical, like reciting facts from someone else’s life.
“I loved my m-mom and dad. But m-my seizures got worse aft-after their deaths. The st-stress, I think. And I was—I was intentionally distancing myself from p-people who wanted to m-make me ‘the tragedy kid,’ and then years of being p-passed around foster homes and group homes that st-struggled with my medical needs...”
Kieran trailed off, staring at the ceiling because looking at Vale felt too vulnerable.
“My m-memories of them feel distant now. L-like people I knew and rem-m-membered, but like people on film.” His voice cracked.
“I wonder if—if someone had c-cared enough to give me stability, enough time to let my brain process instead of constantly m-moving me, the seizures would have c-calmed down and I could hold on-n-n to who I was. Who they were.”
“But m-my brain doesn’t work like that. The seizures, the c-constant moves, the stress—it’s like m-my brain just..
. c-couldn’t hold onto them properly. Now, when I think abou-about them, I’m s-s-sad, not for their loss, but for the absence of what they m-might have been in m-my mind if my brain wasn’t so broken.
” Kieran’s throat tightened. “So I sh-shunted them to the back of m-my head to survive. Just—pushed them away so I could f-fu-function.”
The admission was as raw and painful as the TENS unit burns.
“Your brain isn’t broken, sweetheart. It’s just been forced to adapt to circumstances that would break anyone.” Vale shifted, pulling Kieran closer against his side. “The foster system failed you. They passed you along like you were disposable.”
Kieran felt tears gathering in his eyes, the validation hitting harder than he expected.
“But you’re not disposable. You never were.
” Vale’s hand found Kieran’s jaw, tilting his face up to meet his eyes.
“You needed someone who understood that structure and stability are what allow creativity to flourish. What you needed to flourish as a person. Someone who cared enough to give you the framework your mind needs to process everything you’ve been through. ”
“That’s what this is,” Vale continued, his voice soft but certain.
“The lessons, the methods—it’s not about breaking you.
It’s about giving you the stability and structure to finally process all that pain and turn it into something.
Your parents would want that for you. They’d want you to have someone who understands what you need. ”
Kieran’s breath hitched, caught between knowing the pain was real and the equally true feeling that this was the first time since his parents died that anyone cared enough to see him as anything other than a problem to be managed.
“I know what it’s like,” Vale said. “To have the people who should protect you hurt you instead. But there’s a difference between cruelty and education. Between abuse that serves no purpose and pain that creates something beautiful.”
“You’re safe with me,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to Kieran’s temple. “I’m not going to pass you along or give up on you when things get difficult. I’m going to give you what you needed all along—someone who cares enough to help you become everything you’re capable of being.”
Kieran let himself believe it. He let himself sink into the warmth of Vale’s arms and the promise of stability, even though some distant part of his mind recognized the manipulation for what it was.
Because the alternative—acknowledging that he traded a sense of abandonment for suffering—felt too vast to survive.
“Thank you,” Kieran whispered. “For c-caring. For not giving up on me.”
Vale held him closer, and Kieran tried to ignore the parallel between Vale’s father bringing him ice water in secret and Vale icing injuries he’d inflicted on Kieran himself.
This is different. This has purpose. This is how he shows love.
Evening crept across the living room windows, and Kieran couldn’t stop thinking about the laptop sitting closed on the coffee table for a week now.
The A.T. messages waited inside it, questions about the hood and the basement that felt more threatening now that he’d let Vale see deeper into his history.
A.T. doesn’t understand that this is what I need.
Vale was in his office handling business calls, leaving Kieran alone with his spiraling thoughts and the aura creeping into his vision.
He hadn’t slept well last night—the A.T.
messages playing on loop in his mind—and exhaustion made everything feel more fragile, more likely to shatter if he looked at it too closely.
The interview was tonight. Dr. Sam would appear on the screen, bubbly and in love with music, and Kieran would have to perform normalcy while his damaged fingertips bled and anonymous strangers sent messages about hoods and basements and methods that weren’t supposed to exist.
He pulled two eyelashes free from his left eye before moving onto his right.
He then began nibbling at his nails, staring at his laptop.
He was so scared to open it. Would it be a barrage of messages from A.T.
? Would he see scandal plastered all over his feed, or people calling Vale a monster and him a victim?
I’m not a victim.
“Sweetheart?”
Vale’s voice made Kieran’s hand jerk away from his mouth, guilt making his stomach churn at being caught. But Vale’s expression was concerned rather than disappointed as he crossed the room to kneel in front of the couch.
“You’re doing it again,” Vale said softly, catching Kieran’s hands. “What’s wrong? You’ve been anxious all evening.”
Tell him. Tell him about the messages. Tell him someone knows.
But the words stuck in Kieran’s throat, trapped behind the fear of disappointing Vale, of revealing he couldn’t even handle basic fan interactions without spiraling into panic.
“Just n-nervous,” Kieran managed, the lie tasting metallic and wrong. “About the interview tonight.”
Thankfully, Vale didn’t press him for details. He simply wrapped his hand around Kieran’s throat and squeezed.
The relief was immediate and visceral. Kieran’s rapid pulse slowed as the familiar response kicked in—pressure equals safety, Vale’s hand equals home. The anxiety didn’t disappear entirely, but it crystallized into something more manageable, less likely to fragment and spiral.
“There.” Vale smiled as he released his hold. “Better?”
Kieran nodded, not trusting his voice, letting himself exist in the quiet space where Vale’s touch made everything else feel distant and survivable.
“Dr. Sam is only going to ask about music,” Vale assured him as he began wrapping his hands. “Your background, your process, maybe some technical questions about vocal technique. Nothing personal, nothing invasive. And I’ll be right there next to you until she’s ready for the solo portion.”
Solo portion. When you leave me alone with someone who might ask questions I don’t know how to answer.
“Okay,” Kieran said finally, meeting Vale’s eyes. “I’m ready.”
No, I’m not. But I’ll pretend to be ready because that’s what you need from me.
“Five minutes until she calls,” he said, moving to check camera angles one final time before donning that mask that made him seem like a void in a hoodie. “Remember—she’s a fan of your work. She wants to understand your music, not tear you down.”
Kieran nodded and took his position in the chair as he tried to ignore the way his reflection looked pale and fragile under the professional lighting. He just needed to make it through this without embarrassing himself or Vale.
Just don’t stutter too badly. Don’t seize. Don’t reveal anything that shouldn’t be revealed.
The countdown timer on the camera started blinking, and Kieran forced his shoulders to relax as Dr. Sam’s face appeared on the monitor, warm and professional and exactly as kind as she’d seemed in her analysis videos.
“Hello, Thorn! Hello, Bloom!” Her enthusiasm was immediate, that kind of excitement that made music feel like the most important thing in the world even to people who didn’t care about the technical aspects. “Thank you both so much for making time for this conversation.”
Here we go.
Kieran’s damaged fingertips throbbed beneath the table, and somewhere in the closed laptop on the coffee table, A.T.’s messages waited with their terrible questions about hoods and basements and methods that would destroy everything if anyone understood what they really meant.
But Vale was beside him, solid and steady, and Kieran had to believe that would be enough to make it through whatever came next.