Chapter 47
Notes on the devil's violin; Salvation wrapped in sin; I think I finally understand what it means to let you in…
Kieran
I’ve had seizures before. I’ve always just gotten back to normal life afterward.
But this time was different, apparently.
This time required weeks of enforced stillness while Vale monitored his every movement.
It was twelve days of Vale bringing him breakfast with a rose on a tray and “You need to rest, sweetheart” and “The doctor said complete rest, no arguments” delivered in that steady voice that brooked no discussion.
Kieran shifted against the headboard, his guitar balanced across his lap while he scribbled lyrics in the notepad that had become his best friend and worst enemy at times.
The melody was simple—embarrassingly simple compared to the complex arrangements they usually developed together—but something about basic chord progressions felt right for what he was trying to express.
It was just a song. Nothing complicated. Nothing that requires bleeding, or electrical stimulation, or bruises.
The verses came easily enough, honest observations about finding safety in dangerous places and learning to trust hands that had hurt him, about the way Vale’s sharp attention somehow felt softer than any manufactured gentleness he’d ever known.
But every time he reached the chorus, his throat would close up, words stuttering and catching in ways that meant they weren’t right yet.
Why can’t I just say what I feel? Why does everything have to be so fucking complicated?
His fingers found the chord progression again, the tips of his fingers wrapped in gauze since Vale decided it was time to let his nails heal. He had to wear them all the time now.
I’m glad he noticed. He cares enough to help me stop hurting myself.
Kieran didn’t mind the enforced protection.
His nails were actually growing back for the first time in weeks, little white crescents appearing where there had been only bloody stumps and inflamed cuticles.
It was evidence of healing, proof his body could recover from the damage he’d been inflicting on it.
The bedroom door opened and Kieran looked up to find Vale carrying a tray with lunch and what looked like mail.
“How are you feeling?” Vale asked, settling the tray on the nightstand before sitting on the edge of the bed. His attention immediately went to Kieran’s face, probably searching for signs of fatigue or stress that might indicate another seizure building.
“B-bored out of my fucking m-mind,” Kieran said, but without any heat. “I’ve written three songs, reorganized your bookshelf, and I’m p-pretty sure I’ve memorized every p-pattern in the wallpaper.”
Vale’s smile was soft, like he was genuinely amused rather than condescending. “Boredom is a good sign. It means your brain is functioning normally.”
“I f-feel fine,” Kieran said, the same argument he’d been making for days. “B-better than fine. I don’t understand why I c-can’t at least do some recording, m-maybe work on the Jericho duet—”
“No.” The word was gentle but final. “Dr. Henley was very clear about the timeline. Two more days, then we reassess.”
Two more days of rest. Two more days of him taking care of me because he loves me.
But even as frustration built in his chest, Kieran leaned into Vale’s touch as his hand settled on his forehead to check for a fever.
“What’s this?” Vale asked, nodding toward the open notebook where Kieran’s latest attempt at lyrics was scattered across the page in increasingly frustrated handwriting.
Heat rose in Kieran’s cheeks. “N-nothing. Just—trying to work through some stuff. It’s n-not good.”
Vale’s eyes moved over the visible lines of the chord progression, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “May I?” he asked, gesturing toward the guitar.
Kieran handed it over and watched as Vale’s fingers found the chord progression he’d been struggling with. The melody rang clear, simple and effective, just how he wanted it.
“It’s beautiful,” Vale said softly. “What’s the chorus?”
“That’s the p-problem.” Kieran’s voice was thick with frustration. “Every time I try to sing it, I—the words aren’t right, b-but I can’t figure out what they should b-be.”
Vale’s fingers continued moving over the strings, playing variations on the theme while his attention settled on Kieran’s obvious distress.
“Sing what you have,” he said finally. “Don’t worry about getting stuck. Just let me hear what you’re trying to express.”
Kieran closed his eyes and let the melody carry him, voice soft and uncertain as he attempted the chorus eluding him for hours:
“Swallow it down, the learned surrender,
Hollow it out, the heart defenders.
Drown out all the self-deceiving,
Maybe I can believe what you’re believing.
Wedding bells—”
His voice cut off abruptly, not with a stutter, but complete vocal paralysis. His mouth moved soundlessly, his jaw working without producing anything, like his entire vocal apparatus froze mid-word.
Fuck. Not even singing helps when the emotion’s this big.
“What comes next?” Vale asked, but Kieran was already shaking his head in frustration.
“I c-can’t—” Kieran tried again, mouth moving without sound before giving up entirely, his hands fluttering in frustration. “That’s the fucking p-problem. The words just—they l-lock up my whole mouth. And it’s n-not even complex, just some b-basic song that doesn’t m-mean anything—”
“Hey.” Vale set the guitar aside. “It’s not stupid. And it does mean something, or you wouldn’t be struggling so hard to get it right.”
Vale was quiet for a moment, studying Kieran’s face with that focused attention missing nothing. “Maybe it would help to see how people are actually responding to what happened. The feedback has been overwhelmingly positive, and I know how much you like interacting with your fans.”
No. I don’t know if I can handle seeing more videos of myself seizing.
“I c-can’t,” Kieran said immediately, panic creeping into his voice. “I’m n-not ready to see—”
“People are being kind,” Vale repeated. “Genuinely kind. Maybe seeing that support would help with whatever’s blocking you creatively.”
Part of Kieran did want to know what the world thought of their exposed dynamic, but the larger part was terrified of seeing his medical emergency turned into content. Again.
But if Vale thinks it will help...
With shaking hands, Kieran reached for the laptop that sat untouched on the nightstand for nearly two weeks. The screen came to life, notifications flooding his social media accounts faster than he could process.
The first thing he saw was hundreds of well-wishes—genuine messages of support from fans who seemed genuinely concerned about his health rather than treating the seizure as entertainment.
An official statement from Dr. Sam, tear-stained and apologetic, explaining that she’d tried to cut the stream but people had already screen-grabbed everything.
She feels worse about this than I do.
But as Kieran scrolled deeper, the bigger revelation hit him: Vale’s identity was completely exposed now.
Fancams had appeared overnight—clips of Vale’s rare public appearances over the years smash-cut with footage of him stroking Kieran’s hair during the seizure, his unmasked face wet with tears as he administered emergency medication.
One comment thread stopped him:
the way he looks at thorn like he’d burn the whole world down to keep him safe
this isn’t producer/artist this is LOVE love
This dude doesnt even show up to collect his Grammys. Thorn must be special
Am I special?
Scrolling further, Kieran found a message from Jericho’s verified account, her profile picture showing her evolving look—the pristine white of Flake getting grungier, dirtier, but somehow more beautiful.
Like snow on the side of the road, he thought, and he felt a surge of pride that his split-second decision that night helped free her from an image she never wanted. He clicked on the message.
JerichoMakesMusic
Hope you’re recovering well! No pressure, but when we meet up can we PLEASE talk about your thing with Vale????
Kieran glanced up to share the message with Vale, but the words died on his lips. Vale was completely absorbed in the guitar, a gentle smile on his face as he strummed through the chorus, swaying as he did. The sight was so unexpectedly beautiful that Kieran forgot how to breathe.
This. This is the moment I’ve been trying to write about.
Not the lessons or the breaking or even the intimacy. This—Vale vulnerable and human, playing Kieran’s simple song without trying to fix it.
I’ve been in love with him. I just didn’t know what to call it until now.
The realization didn’t arrive as a revelation. It was the naming of something true, maybe even inevitable. The fans weren’t wrong. This was exactly what love looked like when it grew in a strange place—twisted and complicated, but real nonetheless.
Maybe I can finish the song now. Maybe I finally know what the chorus needs to be.
“Swallow it down. the learned surrender…”
Kieran sang softly, letting Vale’s guitar work carry him forward.
"Hollow it out, the heart defenders.
Drown out all the self-deceiving,
Maybe I can believe what you’re believing...”
The melody flowed easier with Vale’s accompaniment, but when he reached the problem section, instead of freezing up, new words spilled out:
“Wedding bells with hounds of hell,
A blasphemed angel does what he does.
From the skies, a cry of mourning doves…
I think I know what it means to be in love.”
The last line hung in the air between them, raw and unexpected and absolutely true.
Vale stopped playing abruptly, his face growing serious as he set the guitar aside. The sudden shift in demeanor sent Kieran’s heart racing, but not with fear—with anticipation.
Then Vale’s hands were cupping his face, his fingers gentle but firm as he held Kieran’s gaze.
“The last line,” Vale said, swallowing hard. “Say it again.”