Chapter 52
Stumble through the humble, I'm the king of friendly fumble; Mumble when I rumble, watch my confidence crumble…
Kieran
The nausea hit without warning, bile rising in Kieran’s throat as he stared at the Instagram caption on his laptop screen: “ Viral sensation Thorn’s first concert SOLD OUT!”
Ten thousand people.
Ten thousand strangers expecting him to perform songs that had to be ripped out of him while they documented every moment, every stutter, every potential seizure for social media consumption. Ten thousand sets of eyes watching him break down for their entertainment.
I can’t. I can’t do this. There’s no way I can—
Vale’s attention was focused on his computer, and he looked like he was ten layers deep in Pro Tools, working on the audio for ‘Descent’.
His glasses were back and slipping down the bridge of his nose like they did when he was concentrating really hard.
He was being honest, that he preferred Vale in those glasses. He looked warmer.
But today Kieran couldn’t focus on that warmth. His entire nervous system was consumed by the image of that massive venue and the certainty that he would fail spectacularly in front of ten thousand witnesses.
His messenger notification dinged, cutting through his spiraling thoughts with the familiar terror that accompanied every message from Jericho lately:
JerichoMakesMusic
Update on my friend’s pet situation—the new home is ready whenever the pet is ready to move.
Kieran’s hands started shaking as he stared at the message. She’s trying to save me. She thinks I need saving.
But the messages terrified him for reasons he couldn’t fully articulate—not just because Vale might discover what she was referencing and be disappointed with him again, but because a small, treacherous part of his mind actually yearned for what she was offering.
Control. Agency. The ability to make decisions about my own shitty life again.
The thought made him feel sick. Vale had given him everything—a career, recognition, love… People knew his name now. His music mattered to strangers who messaged him about how his words helped them feel less alone.
How can I even think about leaving when he’s made me into someone who matters?
But that yearning wouldn’t die completely, no matter how many times Kieran reminded himself of Vale’s generosity, his patience, his careful attention that transformed a broken street performer into an artist people actually wanted to hear.
I love him. I love him, and he loves me, and none of this would exist without him.
Kieran deleted Jericho’s message without responding. But his hands were still shaking, the nausea still churning in his stomach as he stared at the concert announcement and tried to imagine surviving that kind of exposure.
“What’s wrong?” Vale asked. “Your breathing changed.”
Kieran turned the laptop screen toward Vale. “I d-don’t think I c-can do this,” he stuttered. “I c-could barely busk for p-people, and I never even l-looked at them. I was hoping—maybe a small intimate c-coffee shop for a first show, not—not that.”
The words tumbled out faster as his spiral accelerated, rational thought dissolving into pure anxiety. “What if people are d-disappointed by me in real life? What if I p-panic? What if the venue is playing a j-joke and I didn’t actually sell out?”
It has to be a mistake. There’s no way ten thousand people actually want to see me.
Vale took off his glasses and patted his lap.
Yes. Please.
Kieran shut the laptop and walked over, but Vale grabbed his collar before he ever got a chance to sit down, dragging him into a kiss as Kieran crawled into his lap.
“You can do this,” Vale said. “It’s not a joke. You sold out a ten thousand capacity venue because people genuinely want to experience your music live. And I’ll be there the entire time, making sure everything goes smoothly.”
But what if I can’t? What if I freeze up there? What if I have a seizure in front of everyone?
The spiral wouldn’t stop, anxiety feeding on itself until Kieran felt like he might vibrate apart in Vale’s arms. Then Vale’s hand found his throat and he squeezed.
Oh. Yes. This.
Kieran lifted his chin to give Vale better access and let his eyes flutter shut as the pressure built in his head and his lung screamed for air.
His racing thoughts began to slow, the electric terror crystallizing into something more manageable, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was a joke. That he was a joke.
Kieran took a deep breath as the pressure on his throat eased and curled tighter against Vale. “Maybe I’m just a g-gimmick meant to burn out.”
Vale kissed his forehead. “We’re going to go on a walk.”
Kieran pulled back slightly, confusion replacing some of his anxiety. “Where?”
“The greenhouse.”
The greenhouse was massive—sprawling glass and steel that seemed to rival the house itself in sheer square footage. Kieran stood in the doorway, overwhelmed by the explosion of color and life that filled every available space.
Different rose varieties dominated most sections, their blooms ranging from deep burgundy so dark they looked black to pale pink that was nearly white, with every shade in between—coral and peach and butter yellow and vivid crimson.
The scent hit him like a slap, sweet and heady and almost overwhelming in their intensity.
This is where his roses come from. Every morning, a different one on my nightstand. He’s been coming here to choose them.
Beyond the roses, a plant towered above them both, its massive leaves creating shadows on the glass ceiling. They looked thick and heavy, with giant holes in them. It didn’t look real.
“Monstera gigas,” Vale explained, following Kieran’s gaze upward. “My mother planted it twenty-five years ago. It’s nearly reached the roof now.”
Twenty-five years of growth. A living timeline of his family.
Kieran moved deeper into the greenhouse, drawn by the riot of life that seemed impossible given the autumn chill outside.
Lilies clustered in terracotta pots, their trumpet-shaped blooms in shades of orange and white and deep purple.
Climbing jasmine wound around wooden trellises with tiny white flowers releasing perfume that mixed with the roses and the rich, loamy smell of earth.
Orchids perched on elevated shelves, their exotic blooms looking almost artificial in their perfection—pale green with purple spots, pure white with yellow throats, deep magenta that seemed to glow in the filtered sunlight.
Ferns cascaded from hanging baskets, their fronds creating a canopy of green that made the space feel alive, breathing.
The warmth was immediate and comforting, humid air wrapping around Kieran like an embrace after the cold walk from the house. His fingers trailed over velvety rose petals, careful not to disturb them too much, before moving to touch an enormous Monstera leaf that hung at shoulder height.
“This property was my family’s,” Vale said, his voice carrying a softness that Kieran rarely heard. “It was left to me when my parents passed. They pushed music constantly—demanded perfection, technical mastery, emotional control. But their real passion was always this. Growing beautiful things.”
“Do you miss them?” Kieran asked absentmindedly, still processing the sheer amount of color around him.
“Not really. They’re in the soil all around us,” Vale continued, his hand finding the small of Kieran’s back.
Kieran opened his mouth to ask—ashes? bodies? how did they die?—but the questions died before reaching his tongue. Something about the way Vale spoke suggested those details didn’t matter, or perhaps mattered too much to examine directly.
He does everything with purpose. Even the things I don’t understand. Even this.
The greenhouse felt like a secret world. Here, surrounded by his parents’ legacy of cultivation, Vale seemed at peace, like a constant tension fell away that existed even inside the house.
Kieran wondered if the roses knew they were beautiful, if the Monstera understood it had been growing for a quarter century toward some invisible ceiling it would eventually reach.
Or if they simply existed, responding to light and water and soil without questioning the purpose of their own expansion.
Maybe that’s what I am now. Just responding to Vale’s cultivation without understanding the purpose.
But standing in this warm, fragrant space filled with living things that had been carefully tended for decades, Kieran found he didn’t mind the comparison as much as he probably should.
“How d-do you maintain all of this?” Kieran asked as he took in the sheer scope of plant life surrounding them. “When we’re t-together all the time?”
Vale’s expression shifted slightly, something that might have been guilt crossing his features before settling back into that familiar calm.
“I’ve been overworking my gardener. Mrs. Martinez comes three times a week now instead of once.
She’s not particularly pleased about the increased hours, but the compensation makes up for it. ”
Overworking someone. Because of me. Because taking care of me takes all his time.
He felt the guilt in his throat first, a poison constricting the tendons in his neck as it spread throughout his body.
He was a burden—the same burden he’d been in every foster home, the kid whose medical needs required too much attention, too much monitoring, too much care that could have been directed toward children who didn’t seize at inconvenient times.
Just like before. Always too much work. Always requiring more than anyone wants to give.
Tears started building behind his eyes as he wrapped his arms around himself, turning away from Vale, because he couldn’t bear to see the eventual disappointment or frustration on his face.
His gaze landed on a tiny seedling pushing through dark soil at the base of a vibrant red rose bush, its leaves barely developed, insignificant compared to the established beauty towering beside it.