Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 256

I watch him slump down against the door like his legs finally give out, like the weight of everything he’s dragged back with him has nowhere left to go but straight down. One leg stretched out, the other bent. His breath shudders once, barely audible, and then he presses his hand to his side.

The moment I see the way his fingers dig in, not protective but resigned....I know there’s real damage beneath the fabric. Something he dragged all the way here because he thought he had to.

He turns his head away from me for a second, eyes unfocused. Then he looks back, just briefly, like he’s checking that I’m still here. He drags a hand over his face and lets the back of his head fall against the door. His arm is draped over his knee, loose and defeated.

He doesn’t speak.

He doesn’t need to.

I can feel him fighting himself, the air shifting around him like turbulence. And I hate that this is what he’s carrying. That this is what the world carved out of him.

But I’m proud of him too....So proud it stings.

Just walking through that door again, that had to take everything he had left. He swallows, and when he finally speaks, his voice is low. Like he’s afraid the words might cut on the way out.

“You once asked me,” he murmurs, eyes fixed somewhere past me, “...what he was like.”

I blink.... I remember that moment with a clarity that makes my chest pinch. I’d asked him about Andrew once. Back when I was trying to get him to open up, to get some kind of help, and he’d given me nothing but a wall. But underneath all that “concern,” there had been something else in me too....something smaller, pettier, uglier. A knot of insecurity I’ve never been proud of and still don’t fully know what to do with.

Because Andrew left marks on Jax that time hasn’t been able to fade, marks carved so deep they still shape the way he breathes. And part of me....God, I hate admitting it even in my own head....had wanted to know what kind of person held that kind of power in him. And I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that part of myself.

“He was kind,” Jax starts, and his voice cracks on the word like it surprises him. “Too fucking kind.”

His eyes lower. His fingers tighten against his knee.

“The kind of person who’d stop whatever he was doing if someone needed something. Even if it messed up his day. Even if it made everything harder for him. He’d just do it. Didn’t complain.”

He exhales, slow and shaking.

“And he was quiet. Wouldn’t talk to you unless you talked first. Always looked like he was thinking about something he didn’t wanna say out loud.”

A small, cracked laugh leaves him, pain threaded right through it.

“He liked cats. There were these strays outside the restaurant. Skinny as hell. He fed them every night.”

I swallow hard. My chest feels too tight, Jax’s gaze drops to the floor between us.

“He collected things. Stupid things. Bottle caps, train tickets, receipts. Said he liked holding proof that moments happened. That they were real.”

Another breath. Another fracture.

“And he hated storms,” he continues quietly. “He’d sit on the edge of the bed with his hands pressed to his ears, staring at the wall like he was waiting for something awful to break through.”

His voice softens even further, a hollow echo of itself. “He was good.”

The word hangs between us, fragile as glass. I close my eyes, my heart aches for him. For the boy he was. For the man he became. For every piece of him that still thinks he deserved any of it. When I look at him again, he’s staring at nothing. I force down the ache in my throat

“He sounds like a great person,” I say quietly, and I mean it. “I’m sure he was.”

Jax's jaw works once, like the compliment hurts more than it soothes.

“But you told me once,” I continue, softer still, “..that he never really seemed okay. That something was always eating at him.”

His eyes flick up to me, only for a second, before they drop again. His voice is barely a whisper. “I should’ve tried harder. To ask. To push. To give him enough reason to stay.”

I shake my head slowly, because the truth feels heavy on my tongue.

“I think you did everything you could, Jax.”

He doesn’t believe me. I can see it in the tension in his shoulders.

“And even if you hadn’t,” I add, breath unsteady, “...you were young, and you were drowning too. You can’t save someone when no one ever taught you how to swim.”

His fingers twitch restlessly, picking at nothing like if he keeps his body moving, he won’t fall apart completely. He bends forward a little more, gaze darting around the room with a frantic, unfocused edge. Like he’s looking for a place to set down the grief he’s carried too long.

“He didn’t deserve any of it,” he says. “It wasn’t just Joe’s death that pushed him. It was everything else. Whatever he was going through before that. And he didn’t deserve it.”

He swallows, hard.

“Neither did Joe.” His voice breaks on the name.

“So why, hmm? Why them? And why me?”

I can’t answer. I don’t think anyone could. He drags in a breath that sounds like it catches on something sharp inside his chest.

“He had things. Stuff I know he'd have wanted me to keep.” His hands curl in, trembling. “But I didn’t. I couldn’t.”

His voice is a rough, splintered whisper.

“I had to choose between being sad and being angry, and I was too much of a coward to pick sadness. So I got furious. At him. At myself. At the fucking world. I even tried to burn down the building.”

My heart lurches but he keeps going.

“Because it was easier than admitting he chose to do it..... That he chose to kill himself.”

He opens his eyes then, looks at me. And I know, instantly, that it’s the first time he’s ever said those words out loud.

It’s in his eyes. Something wild flickers there, like he’s standing on the edge of a cliff he spent years pretending didn’t exist. He looks like his body is bracing for impact, like he expects the world to collapse the second the truth leaves his mouth.

There’s also a desperation in his gaze I’ve never seen before. Not even on his worst days. Not even when he was breaking in my arms. This is different. This is the part of him he’s kept locked away out of fear it would destroy everything he touches.

And suddenly the space between us, small as it is, feels wrong and unbearable.

“Jax,” I breathe, and his head lifts a fraction, barely, but it’s enough.

“Come here.”