sounds he wished that he could forget plagued whatever attempt at sleep he tried for the fifth time that night. his eyes flew open and he dragged air into his lungs like he’d been underwater , chest burning as if he couldn't get enough air in quick enough . pain shot through him immediately at the movement . sharp along his ribs , deep and punishing , the kind that told him his body remembered even if he wanted to forget .
the ceiling above him was wrong . too white . too clean . no familiar lights , no shadows from the la skyline bleeding through sheer curtains . just sterile light and the faint hum of something that needed fixing . panic crawled up his throat before he could stop it . hospital . no - worse . somewhere quieter . somewhere that didn’t let you leave .
the crash came back in pieces, never a full scene. the steering wheel he couldn't reach . the sick , hollow realisation that he wasn’t as fine as he’d told himself he was . the sound his body made when it hit . heat . silence . his own breathing , ragged and loud , like it belonged to someone else . his head throbbed , tight and unwavering , and when he lifted a hand to his temple his fingers brushed the edge of a bandage . his hand was shaking . that almost made him laugh , a dry , humourless sound that died in his chest before it could escape .
la came back next . not the crash, rather how he ran like a coward.
the scramble . the clarity that only terror ever gave him . blood on his hands that wasn’t all his . what he had nearly allowed her to do to them . his cat , fucking chicken , wild-eyed in his carrier as he shoved him into the backseat of a car he shouldn't have gotten into . the private helicopter waiting on a rooftop like a confession already paid for . no press . no questions . just money and silence and the understanding that this wasn’t damage control anymore . this was escapism .
he remembered the way the city shrank beneath them , hazy and unreal , like a place he’d finally been exiled from , his eyes searched for any flashing lights that might have been guiding her somewhere safe . he remembered clutching the carrier in his lap , whispering apologies into the plastic while the rotors thundered overhead . he hadn’t been thinking about rehab then . he'd just needed to be anywhere else . and minnesota wasn't safe now , she'd find him there eventually .
his ribs screamed when he shifted . deep bruises wrapped around his torso , tender and unforgiving , a physical accounting of how close he’d come . his wrist was bound tight , swollen and aching , a slow pulse of pain that promised to linger , a reminder of the fight he'd lost with the dash of the car . he took inventory automatically . minor . survivable . the kind of injuries the public would forgive . the kind that didn’t touch the real damage .
reality settled in quietly and all at once . the smell , antiseptic , not hospital but close enough . the stillness . the absence of his phone . the weight in his chest that had nothing to do with broken bones .
the word landed heavy and final.
a week . he’d been here a week . a week of sweating through sheets , of shaking hands and clenched teeth , of nausea and headaches and the unbearable crawl under his skin that nothing could soothe . even now , awake and alert , the craving slid through him like muscle memory , like it was all he'd ever known . he could almost taste it . the relief . the way everything would soften , just for a moment .
and , god , he wanted it .
his fingers curled into the blanket as his mind betrayed him , offering images like a taunt: small, perfect, distructive . a fix would make this stop . the pain . the noise . the shame . just one . just enough to breathe .
blue eyes flicked to the nightstand . water . a paper cup . pills that weren’t the ones he wanted . a laminated schedule with his name printed neatly at the top , as if this were just another production he’d agreed to star in . he'd always been best at playing along with someone elses story .
then the thought of felicity hit him, sharp and sudden.
the urge to call her was immediate , desperate , instinctive . he could see it - her name lighting up his screen , the way her voice would soften when she realised it was him . before she got mad or fed up of him eventually . he imagined confessing everything . or lying . he imagined her fixing it just by existing on the other end of the line .
his hand twitched toward where his phone should have been .
the absence hurt worse than the bruises . no phone . no lifelines . no running to the one person who made him feel like he wasn’t already past saving . it felt intentional . surgical . like everyone in this building had already sussed him out and they knew him too well .
something warm shifted against his leg , and he looked down to find his cat curled into him , solid and breathing and real . he blinked up at him, unimpressed by his unraveling , and pressed his head into his thigh . the simplicity of it nearly broke him .
he closed his eyes . this was it . no city . no set . no distractions . just his body , wrecked but alive . his mind , loud and traitorous . the consequences of every choice stacked neatly around him in white walls and locked doors .
he had run out of exits .
and as much as he wanted the fix , wanted the call , wanted to disappear back into the version of himself that didn’t have to feel this, he knew , with sick clarity , that there was no undoing it . he was going to have to survive it awake .
two weeks in , the days stopped blurring and started dragging .
maddox learned the exact weight of time when there was nowhere left to hide from it . the shakes quieted but never disappeared unlike the last time he had done this . they lived in his hands , in the way his jaw locked when he was tired , in the restless energy that crawled through him at night when sleep refused to come . his ribs still ached when he moved wrong , when he laughed , which he didn’t , but the pain dulled into something livable , more reminder than warning .
he started eating again . slowly . mechanically . he hated the way the nurses looked relieved when he finished a plate , hated the small , patronising pride in their voices when they told him he was doing well .
sometimes , he was pretty sure chicken was the only think keeping him sane . his cat a part of the rhythm of his days . he slept through group sessions curled into his hoodie , blinked at him like he knew every thought he refused to say out loud . sometimes he pressed his face into his fur and breathed until the craving loosened its grip . sometimes it didn’t , and he just breathed anyway .
he dreamed about using . woke up with his heart racing , his mouth dry , furious at himself for how real it felt .
a month in , people started telling him he looked better . and he hated that too . he didn't . his curls were cut short into a buzz , no unruly one framing his face for her to not play with .
his face lost some of the sharp panic it carried those first days . the cut on his temple settled into a thin line he pretended not to touch . the bruises faded into yellowed ghosts . his wrist still ached when the weather shifted . but his body was learning how to exist without being fed something artificial every few hours .
it was his mind that didn't seem to want to heal just as quickly as his cheeks filled back out .
the cravings came less often , but when they hit they arrived clean and sharp , precise like a targeted attack on his weakest points . he learned their shapes . loneliness . boredom . memories he no longer got to curate . la sunsets bleeding into orange and gold . certain songs . her laugh , uninvited and vivid . he missed his best friend too , if he still had one of those .
he thought about felicity constantly and never at the same time . he told himself he wouldn’t reach out . that he didn’t deserve to interrupt her life with proof that he was still breathing . he told himself silence was kinder . once a martyr , always a martyr , he told himself a lot of things and believed none of them fully .
december arrived without ceremony .
no warning . no buildup . just a date that settled into his chest like a bruise he couldn’t stop pressing .
he knew the day the moment he woke up . it was there before he was fully conscious , heavy and unavoidable . felicity’s birthday . he remembered the way she hated waking up early , the way she pretended not to care and then absolutely did . he remembered rooting through bins of old t-shirts , just to find ones she loved . he remembered her nickname resting on his tongue , soft and familiar , something that had belonged only to them .
he made it through breakfast . through group . through an afternoon check-in where he said he was fine and meant nothing by it .
the need to hear her voice hurt worse than any craving he’d had all month .
that night , alone in his room , he took out the burner phone he wasn’t supposed to have yet . cheap . untraceable . a small act of rebellion that felt heavier than it should have . his hands shook - not from withdrawal this time , but from fear .
he stared at the blank screen for a long time .
he typed her number from memory . deleted it . typed it again .
maddox didn’t apologise, because he knew that would open a door he wasn’t strong enough to walk through yet .
happy birthday arkansas .
he read it until his eyes burned .
the quiet afterward was unbearable . his heart pounded like he’d done something dangerous . like he’d crossed a line that couldn’t be uncrossed . maybe he had . he turned the phone face down . pressed his forehead to the mattress . breathed . for the first time since the crash , since the helicopter , since the doors closed behind him , he let himself want something without immediately destroying it .
and somehow , that mattered .
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