Archive of Our Own ^beta

A year. Thirty one million five hundred thirty six thousand seconds. 

Nimble hands pick the hourglass up, heavy brown eyes examining the black sand inside of the glass container. “A year?” Josh’s voice echoes softly, voice caught up in the back of this throat. A year is no time at all in the grand scheme of things; after seventeen years, it’s no time. 

“You have one year, yes.” The curt voice replies. Josh can’t see them, but he can feel the hooded eyes watching him through the mesh that the man wears. It’s red, as is the rest of his robing, and it screams out against his pale skin. It hasn’t seen authentic light in years, only the fluorescent vials that sat in the middle of the room. The table is off-center due to this, settled just to the side of the vials. The light spills over onto the heavy oak table, casting streaks of light across the dark cherry color that the table is stained with. “Are you unable to handle the task?” 

“No,” He lifts his eyes, meets a gaze that he’s not even entirely sure is there. “No, I can handle myself. I haven’t failed you yet, have I?”

“No, of course not.” He thinks he can hear the ghost of a smile chasing the words, “This case is just… Particularly tricky, Joshua, and we want our most equipt agent to handle it.” 

Josh snorts, eyes cast downward to the hourglass once more. He can handle this. Of course he can, Josh has done this a million times--quite literally--and he can handle another one. His shortest mission was four years. The longest had been twelve. A year is manageable. “That’s me, isn’t it?” 

“I believe it is.” Coarse hands meet his own, taking the hourglass from Josh’s hands before hidden eyes examine it on their own time. “Well, I believe this is goodbye for now, then.”

“Goodbye, Nico. I hope to bring you good news.” 

The ghost of a smile, “I hope so as well, Joshua. Don’t fail me.”

The hourglass tips and black sand swirls the hole, the granules falling one after another into the abyss that is the dark cherry wood of the table on the table. The moment the hourglass hits the table, Josh is years away, feet planted steadily beneath him--the others had always claimed he was like a cat, the first time he had been thrown into a situation, he’d landed upright without even trying. “Nobody lands on their feet the first time!” One of his friends, Ryan, had cried. He remembers the pride in Nico’s voice when he had scolded Ryan with a simple, “Joshua does.” It’s the first and last time Josh had actually felt something in the strange place he now called his home.

Light casts shadows across the floor of the church, the pews dark and barren of people aside from a single body sat in the middle row of them. A prime location. The head is lowered, and Josh can feel the tension radiating off of the body that shakes where it’s sat. He knows this man. He knows him far too well.  

He can feel it in his chest when the first beads of sand collect at the bottom of the hourglass. One, two, three seconds pass. 

The sand settles, as does Tyler. 

#

Tyler’s seventeen and terrified. 

He can hear the muffled sermon being given by his uncle, and he knows that he should be paying attention. It’s crucial to be paying attention, to be focused on the retelling of the story that is held so close to his heart. To his reality. To his truth. He can’t pay attention, not when there’s blood dried beneath his fingernails that just won’t seem to go away. It takes him a few moments of aggressively trying to work the fingernail of his thumb beneath his index finger to realize that it’s not blood. Blood isn’t black . Blood doesn’t have the same thin, oily consistency that this does. Blood doesn’t spread across his skin as quickly as this does. One touch, and it’s spreading across his skin like a dam that’s been broken. It’s mere moments before he’s covered up to his wrist in the substance, pure panic settling into his veins as he tries to scrub it away with his free hand. 

The transference is almost immediate. His right hand disappears into the same oily, black texture just as quickly as his left hand had. This can’t be happening , he tells himself and refuses to make eye contact with anyone around him, this can’t be happening .

He hasn’t done anything for this to happen; Tyler is a good kid. Tyler spends his free time away from the church shooting hoops in his backyard with his brothers, tutoring other kids in his neighborhood, and setting the table for dinner without even being asked. Tyler spends time braiding his younger sister’s hair, helping to put away the groceries for his mother the moment she asked, and spending time with his family even when his introversion gets the best of him. 

He tries so hard, so hard, so hard to be the best that he can be. His parents deserve the perfect son. They deserve a son who is going to go to college on a basketball scholarship, they deserve a son who is going to carry himself through college with a 4.0 GPA, they deserve a son who is going to be in the NBA and win championship games for the Cavaliers . They deserve so much . They don’t deserve a son riddled with sin, whose own skin betrays him in the house of God. It just doesn’t make any sense for him. Tyler’s clean. 

Tyler’s always been clean. It’s all he’s ever known.

There shouldn’t be a clawing sensation at the back of his throat, choking him until he’s sputtering and coughing up the same black substance onto the floor of the nave. He expects to hear the shocked gasp of his mother, to hear commotion of other members of the congregation to be scurrying away from him in an attempt to protect their children from whatever’s happening to him. There’s a deafening silence that falls over his ears instead; he chokes and cries and the substance spills out of his lips, heavy as it coats his chin and spills down the front of his throat. It gets caught on his crisp button-up, pooling into the gaps of his collarbone as he finally lifts his head. 

The nave no longer exists in the same form as it had before; his uncle is nowhere to be seen behind his podium, the stained glass is no longer radiant and beautiful, casting hues of blues and pinks across the tiled floor. A dark shadow is cast across the entire chapel as if the darkness were a blanket that the pews found solace in. A red light radiates through the windows, offers no comfort to Tyler as it paints across his skin. Instead, he itches to scream, to open his mouth and call for his Savior. When he opens his mouth, nothing comes out. When he blinks, everything disintegrates in front of his eyes. 

He feels suspended, like the demons that huddle in the back of his mind have manifested themselves into a physical being that’s pressing him into the darkness. It’s a heavy weight, ankles stuck in an invisible quicksand that, no matter how hard he tries, he can’t get himself out of. The silence is deafening on his ears, no matter how hard he tries to thrash and scream and cry, there’s nothing. His body doesn’t move. His eyes don’t wet. His voice doesn’t echo. 

It feels like falling through time, an hourglass tipped over and dropping him into the bottomless abyss. There’s nothing to grasp on the way down, his fingers try to reach out for anything to save himself from the desperate freefall that he’s found himself in. Nothing comes to his rescue. The red is back and angry, it wraps his head and nips at his ankles, pulls him apart at the seams. Hitting the ground should be aggressive, it should tear every inch of his skin away from his body and shatter every bone surrounded by muscle, but it feels just as everything else does -- 

It feels like nothing.

For once, he can breathe. 

It’s a shaking, shuddering breath that burns his lungs as if it’s smoke. It should be smoke, he figures, it should be the smoke that filters through the open door that leads to the basement of the church and spills into the reception. It should be the smoke that billows from the flames and captures itself on the ceiling, singeing everything in its path. Flames should lap at his skin and call him home, they should take him apart inch by inch after his body has succumbed to its own peaceful ending through the smoke inhalation. It should be like this , Tyler thinks to himself, head lolling to the side and eyelids fluttering open as the heat creeps across his skin and drapes over him like his mother had brought him a blanket fresh from the dryer. 

It’s not real. None of it is real. Tyler is sat in the pews, head tucked between his thighs and when he lifts his head, brown eyes meet brown eyes. 

The congregation is long gone. His parents have left Tyler with his well-intentioned prayer at the altar, a warm pat on his shoulder from his uncle as they filter into the reception area. They mean well, they know that Tyler is struggling and that the peace he needs every Sunday can only be found when he’s alone. It happens like this every week, Tyler forces himself to sit in the center of the third row of pews and pray away the demons that lurk in the base of his skull. He ducks his head and prays for silence to be silence again, to have memories that are not soaked in misery and pain, to be free from this treacherous slope of never-ending terror. He begs for forgiveness like it’s the only thing that he has left within him. 

It is the only thing that he has left in him. He’s done everything right and yet . 

“It’s not going to get better.” The man stares at him. His hair is as red as the fire that Tyler wishes would consume his bones, his eyes as deep as the dirt he wishes he was buried beneath. “Every Sunday for six months, and you think it’s going to get better ?”

It’s not a hallucination this time when Tyler opens his mouth to speak and nothing comes out. His fingers twitch against the material of his slacks, mind seeking any sort of clarity as he tries to remind himself that this is working. This is working. Every Sunday for six months, it has to be working. “I’m becoming holy.” 

The boy scoffs, teeth caught in his lower lip as he stares at Tyler incredulously. “It takes six months to become holy?” His voice is quiet this time, sincere and thoughtful and it makes Tyler’s skin crawl. It’s almost as if he knows the struggle Tyler is going through, and Tyler wonders if he’s not as good at hiding his pain as he thinks he is. Maybe it’s legible across his skin, maybe everyone knows how chalked full of sin he is. No. No .

Tyler’s holy. He has to be holy. He has no other choice.

“I’m just reaffirming it.” His voice is a quiet whisper, as if he doesn’t even believe it himself. He doesn’t. He can’t. Not with the blood and the oil and the hands, oh God, his hands . 

He doesn’t notice that the man moves to sit beside him in the pew until he hears the soft voice again, until the dirt brown eyes turn into honey beneath the rays of the sun that peek through the non-stained glass. He smells of coffee and a splash of vanilla and the woods down the block from Tyler’s childhood home, like he’s been crafted in the kitchen of God. “Maybe you should see someone about this.” The boy gestures toward Tyler’s hands, his hands that are bleeding -- bleeding red from his cuticles, blood pooling against his fingernails. It’s not black, not like it was moments ago. Why isn’t it black?

“I’m fine.” Tyler turns his hands outwards, wiping his fingers against his slacks and wincing as the material catches his wounds. “Don’t worry about me.” He says, pointedly staring at the man, “You don’t even know me.” 

The man’s lips quirked up at the corners, a ghost of a smile chasing itself across his face. It hits him all at once that Tyler’s seen that expression before; he can feel the way that it lights up his chest and thrusts panic through his veins. How does he know that expression? The face of the man is vaguely familiar in a way that everyone who lives in his hometown is familiar but in the same vein, it’s not; he’s sure they’ve crossed paths more than once or twice in their lives, probably in the grocery store or at one of Tyler’s recreational basketball games. It still feels like it’s more than that, judging by the way the man is staring at him like he’s fragile. 

“I know you a lot better than you think.” 

It’s Tyler’s turn to scoff, to shake his head, to roll his eyes, to run through every dramatic action in the book in an attempt to dispel the very thought. “We’ve never met.” He clenches his jaw and tips his head away from the man, “I would know you. How would you know me if I don’t know you ?” The boy laughs and reaches out to press his fingertips into the palms of Tyler’s hands. Where there should be a spark, there’s comfortability. It feels like there’s history behind the touch, one that ricochets through his chest and pulses through his skull. Tyler’s hand jerks away involuntarily, jaw clenching as he refuses to make eye contact. “What do you want ?” A migraine is growing at the base of his skull, the space just behind his eye pulsing with anger as his vision clouds. He swallows thickly when the man speaks again--

“I want to help you be holy , Tyler.” 

Tyler lifts his head to stare, face falling as he tries to comprehend what’s happening. The way Tyler’s name sounds on his tongue is familiar, too, as if he’s hearing it both for the first time and the millionth time. There’s no way that he hasn’t heard that voice spread across his skin, wrap through his eardrums and settle itself in the crevices of his brain. He’s felt the way that his name sounds on his tongue before, knows it’s been gasped against his own pink lips like a prayer.  “You know my name.” Tyler breathes, swallowing thick around the tight lump that grows in his throat with every passing second. 

“You’re a hot topic, Tyler. Everyone knows your name.” The man says, pulling himself to his feet and tilting his head to stare down at Tyler. The stance asserts his dominance over Tyler, shoulders broad and focused as he keeps his focus on Tyler, who only seems to shrink under his view. “You just don’t know us.” 

“ Us ?” Tyler chokes out the word too late, he blinks and the man is gone. There are no footsteps that signify his absence, only the heavy door closing and separating Tyler once more from reality and his private sphere. It’s as if he was never there in the first place, the only reason that Tyler knows he had been there is from the pain in his palm that radiates up onto his wrists. It leaks across the spanse of his skin, soaks into his fingertips and it feels like he’s suffocating all over again. 

It’s not real. None of it is real. It can’t be real. Tyler is holy . 

He turns his hands inward and folds them in onto themselves. He begs for forgiveness like it’s the only thing that he has left within him.

#

Tyler sinks comfortably into the brown wool chair across the room from his therapist. Her office is an invitation of faux trust; where they should be client-therapist confidentiality, Tyler knows that everything he speaks to her is repeated back to his mother and father. They’ve gotten better at hiding their surprise when Tyler is coaxed into telling them the same things as they drive him around the city. 

“What would you like to talk about today?” She asks, and Tyler mentally notes about how there’s red lipstick on her teeth. The polite thing would be to tell her. Tyler is not feeling polite today. 

“I had the dream about dying again.” He states bluntly, averting his eyes as to not make eye contact. It’s the same story he’s told her before; there’s no reason to rehash it, to force Tyler to go into the entire spiel about how he desperately wants to burn. It’s the third most painful way to die, but yet it is the only way that his body craves to go. “It’s becoming a regular thing.”

“Tell me about it.” She says insistently, pen tapping against the side of her notepad as she stares at Tyler. Tyler scoffs, picking at a loose thread on his slacks. She knows the story just about as well as Tyler himself does. “I want to help you understand it.” 

“I don’t think it’s meant for me to understand.” Tyler murmurs, “I think it’s a punishment.” 

“Tell me about the dream.” She says. 

“I think God wants me to burn.” 

“Tell me about the dream.”

“I think He wants me to hurt.”

“Tyler, tell me about the dream.” He allows himself to raise his eyes up toward her, and there’s almost a look of boredom in her eyes. She doesn’t care about the dream, Tyler knows, she only cares that she needs to relay the information of Tyler’s suffering to his parents in as much detail as possible. 

As much as he just wants to get up and go, to walk out of the office and out of the clinic, Tyler knows that his mother is sat outside in the reception awaiting his return. To pry into his brain like she won’t already hear all about their sessions later on in the evening over an email. He doesn’t have anywhere to go, doesn’t have a place to run to that isn’t home. All he has is to speak, and speak he does.

“I’m in the basement of the church,” He clears his throat, wills himself to not pull his knees to his chest as to not get the chair he’s sitting in dirty. He has better manners than that, even if he’s not feeling particularly polite today. “There’s a fire somewhere- I don’t know if it’s in the basement, too, maybe it’s in one of the storage rooms that they have down there. I’m- I’m not entirely sure.” His breath quickens a bit, earning him a prodding stare, telling him to continue despite the suffocating feeling creeping up the back of his throat, “I just know I’m lying in the center of the floor, where group teen bible study is held every Wednesday night. The chairs surround me, and I can see the reflection of the flames in the metal.” 

“What else?” Her eyes don’t leave the legal pad in her lap, pen scratching away as she jots down everything Tyler is saying. He figures that she knows the story just as well as he does, there’s no reason for every detail to be noted. His mother wouldn’t be happy if every single little thing wasn’t detailed, though. 

“I can breathe.” That causes her to lift her head once more, to stare at him with a questioning look in her eyes. 

“You can breathe. There’s no smoke?” The words are slow and chosen carefully, as if to not hurt Tyler’s feelings in some way. It somehow implies that she believes Tyler has feelings that can be hurt, something that she’s never really recognized before. When it comes to their sessions, she’s relentless and emotionless as she deals with him; it’s almost mechanic, like she’s not entirely involved with the situation at hand. Tyler thinks it’s a bad way to treat clients in this field, but maybe it works for others who aren’t him. 

He shakes his head, gnawing at his lower lip, “There’s smoke. There’s a lot of smoke, it filters through the room and just- I don’t know. I don’t know .” 

“But you can breathe, so it’s not a lot of smoke?” 

“I just said, it’s a lot,” He scoffs, as if she can see the inside of his brain and is refusing to watch it fold out, “Like, dark, black smoke that settles across the room and burns my eyes and just- I can breathe. It burns, it burns a lot , but I can breathe.” The stare lingers longer than necessary, and Tyler averts his own eyes in hopes that it’ll break the overwhelming tension stacking up against him, “It’s the only time that I feel like I’m comfortable breathing, like… The pain gives me something, like it’s a crutch… It’s something comfortable.” Tyler doesn’t know how choking on smoke is comforting, doesn’t know how he feels like he’s at home as he stares into the deep black and lets it choke him. 

“And you die like that, there?” She asks, red lips pursed and fingernails tapping against the legal pad. “On the floor of the church basement.” 

“Smoke inhalation.” He agrees, moving to pick at his cuticles. 

“It must be painful, Tyler,” She says and it might be the first thoughtful thing that she’s said to him throughout their entire session. Throughout any of their sessions.

“I die peacefully.” He disagrees, “I die like I’m meant to.” 

His therapist hums, a brief lapse of silence that makes Tyler wonder if he’s going to be institutionalized for being so candid about death with her. She tips her head a bit, brushing a strand of brown hair behind her ear as she crosses and uncrosses her legs. “You brought up toward the beginning of our session-- You think it’s a punishment. A punishment from who? For what?”

There are a lot of things that Tyler doesn’t have answers for, a lot of things that go over his head and leave him reeling. This is not one of those things. “It’s God.” 

“ God ?” She asks, interest piqued as she stares at Tyler. Her pen stops moving. 

“God is punishing me for not being holy. I’m trying so hard to be holy, but it’s not working. Nothing is working. Six months every Sunday and it should be working but nothing is working. Why isn’t it working?” It’s something she knows all too well. She’s the reason why he’s at six months.

“You think God wants you to burn for not being holy? What gives you that idea?”

“It’s obviously a metaphor for how I’m going to burn in Hell,” Tyler says simply, “I don’t know what Hell looks like yet, but He’s giving me an idea, isn’t He? No one would believe me anyways even if He did show me, and I’m not worthy enough for a peek into the afterlife before dying. He’s doing the best he can for me.” It makes sense. It makes sense that Tyler should burn. It makes sense that Tyler deserves to suffer, even if he’s holy. 

“You’ve still been praying, right?” It’s an acknowledgement of her place in this situation, “Six months, every Sunday. You’re still praying. It’ll work, Tyler, you just have to give it time.”

Anger bubbles within Tyler. He can’t keep holding onto empty promises of the idea that it might work. That he needs to give it time . He just needs to be holy, he needs to get rid of the demons that lurk underneath his skin and the hallucinations that mimic the nightmares he suffers through every night. He’s given it time, he’s given it six months - almost seven - and nothing has changed; he’s no closer to being holy than when he started, he’s no closer to finding God where he needs him the most. 

“Okay.” He says instead, lets his fingers clench around the material of his slacks as he resists the urge to speak further. “I can give it time.” 

“Give it time,” She echoes and nods, dropping her pen onto the legal pad and staring up at Tyler. “We’re out of time, but this week- stay a little longer on Sunday. It might help.” 

Tyler nods tightly, raising himself from the brown wool chair as he turns his attention toward pulling his jacket on, jaw clenched as he makes a mental note. “I can do that. I’ll see you next week.” He doesn’t listen as she tries to say goodbye, he never really does listen. It’s not like these sessions help- there is no long term goal for him, the only reason he’s here is because his mother and his doctor believe that it’ll help. Nothing helps. Nothing ever helps. 

His mother glances up as Tyler steps out from the office, grinning softly as she closes the magazine in her lap and rises to her feet. “How was it, honey?” She asks in a voice that’s sugary sweet and it makes Tyler want to throw up. 

“Same as always.” He murmurs as he picks at his cuticles, following her through the tattered waiting room into the crisp Columbus air. It nips at the skin of his cheeks as he ducks his head, tries to let the wind break over him like a wave as he climbs into the passenger’s seat of his mother’s minivan. The seat isn’t as comfortable as the one he’d been sitting in moments earlier, but it gets him from one place to another with ease. His fingers itch to reach out for the dial of the radio, to drown the ringing in his ears and the sound of the gravel beneath the wheels out with something that makes him feel more than the anger and the static inside of his veins. His mother will slap his hand away and tell him that she has a headache, she’s trying to focus on something else, any type of excuse to make sure that the only noise in the car continues to be their shared breathing pattern and the sound of the wind against the windows of the car as it rushes by. 

The van stops at a light that’s just outside of their neighborhood when Tyler finally spoke up, “She told me to add another hour.” He says and his mother’s unchanging face doesn’t move to meet his. She gives him a curt nod and turns on her blinker. 

“Alright. I’ll make sure to let your father know. We’re having dinner with your uncle this Sunday after Mass, maybe you can just spend that time there instead.” 

Tyler’s fingers tighten in the polyester material of his jacket, tangling the fabric between his fingers as he stares out the windshield. Their house is slowly coming into view. Tyler’s minutes away from his home, his bed, from the vulgar silence of his own brain that claws through his veins like fire. He hopes that when his fingers become numb tonight that they’ll finally just fall off. It’d be one less thing to worry about. 

“Sounds like a good idea.” He unbuckles himself. His mother turns the car off and Tyler steps out, wincing at the brisk air. There’s only comfort in heat, never comfort in the cold. He forces his feet forward, the gentle patter of his canvas shoes on the concrete of the garage. “Call me when dinner is ready.” He murmurs as he slips into the house and carries himself to the stairs, two at a time. 

His bedroom is empty, Zack must be at his girlfriend’s house or spending time elsewhere so he doesn’t have to spend time with his brother. The silence is both comfortable and terrifying. There’s a three minute span between when he crawls into his bed and when the demons arrive in the back of his mind. 

It’s the shortest lapse of time yet. 

#

The world tilts on its axis. Tyler’s feet slide against the pavement as his head makes contact with the concrete; there’s a sharp crack, a jostle of his clothes as he settles against the surface of the sidewalk. He thinks it’s his head, the blood seeps through his shirt as it leaks out of his skin. It’s a way to die, that’s for sure, laid out across the sidewalk in the middle of a concrete jungle as he aches for the world around him to stop spinning. 

Everything is soaked in black, even when he blinks. Shadows are cast across the surface of everything within reach, and Tyler wonders what’s going to jump out from behind the trees, rise from the gutters, slither out from in between the cracks of the sidewalk. He wonders if one of his demons is going to reach out for him, to wrap around his ankles and jerk him into the underworld. It’d be what he deserves. 

“Seven months.” 

If his eyes weren’t already open, Tyler would be jostled at the noise that comes from beyond his own ears. His eyes avert to the noise, jaw clenched as he sets his sights on the man ahead of him. His fiery red hair is not tamed, it’s half tucked behind his ears and he keeps himself held steady as he eyes Tyler. “Seven months. It’s Sunday.”

“Yes, it’s Sunday.” Tyler murmurs, absentmindedly trying to smoothen out the creases he’s made in his slacks. His fingers are sweating and his eyes are twitching, he feels like he’s on the cliff’s edge about to make a jump into the abyss. The hallucinations are back, the misery is written all over his face and he knows that the man can see it. “You’re very observant. Why are you here?” The chapel is supposed to be a place of peace for Tyler, and this man is disrupting the peace. 

“I don’t come here to pray, you know?” The man hums, brushes his fingers through his hair and Tyler’s attentive to the way they look twisted between the red locks. “I don’t attend mass, I don’t spend my time here.” 

“Then why are you here?” He murmurs, head tipping a bit to the side as he turns his attention to watching his every move carefully. He looks messy in a put together way; his shirt is half tucked into his jeans, the black material of his jeans rolled up at the ankle, just barely meeting the top of his boots. “It’s kind of weird to come to a church and stare at a man in prayer if you don’t even attend the services.”

“Are you saying it wouldn’t be weird if I attended the services here and then spent my time staring at you anyways?” He grins, cherry red lips capturing Tyler’s attention for the first time for the first time throughout their entire conversation. The man is pretty, Tyler realizes, in the way that it makes Tyler’s heart stutter. It’s not holy to think of another man like that. His mind rattles off Leviticus 18:22 quickly, lets it cycle through his brain like it’s a washing machine stuck running. You shall not lie with a male as with a woman; it is an abomination. You shall not lie with a male as with a woman; it is an abomination. You shall not lie with a male as with a woman; it is an abomination.

“You’re a freak.” Tyler can’t help but mimic his smile, absentmindedly reaching up to brush his fingers through his hair. “What are you, my stalker?” The man’s boots are heavy as he crosses the tiled floor. Tyler has always hated the fact that the flooring is tiled where as the basement has a concrete floor. The basement. Tyler might have to start moving his prayer sessions to the basement if this weird man doesn’t start leaving him alone. There’s a crucifix on the wall by the clock downstairs that he’d be able to pray to instead of the large one at the back of the altar. 

“I’m just trying to be a friend, Tyler,” Friend is a dangerous word in this capacity, he’s supposed to be emotionally uninvolved as he tries to save Tyler. Save Tyler, but Tyler’s already alive. This Tyler is already alive. His jaw clenches, “I just don’t think every Sunday for seven months is healthy.” 

“People go to church every Sunday of their lives. There’s literally a family that attends this church who have shown up every Sunday every day of their lives. It’s been like that for generations. Seven months is nothing compared to those people.” Tyler scoffs before the man catches his eye, his face twisted in displeasure.

“Those people also do not stay for hours past the ending of mass in an attempt to ‘make themselves holy’.” The man does dramatic air quotes around the idea of becoming holy and Tyler can feel the anger bubble inside of him. 

“What do you know about being holy? You don’t become holy just by existing within the realm of the church. You have to put in the effort. You have to dedicate yourself to Him. All you do is come here, and what, make fun of me for trying to reinforce my love for my religion? You’re pathetic,” Tyler’s speaking too quickly for comfort, anger spilling over the surface of his lips as she rambles, “You don’t deserve to be here, you don’t deserve to have your spirit saved!” He tries to speak more before the man’s head tips a bit, staring at Tyler before he begins speaking himself.

“Do you believe your soul deserves to be saved?” 

Tyler gapes at the man. Of course he believes he deserves to be saved. He’s dedicated his whole life to Him, has only began doubting God during his teenage years but the public computer at the library told him that it’s a normal thing to doubt religion during your teenage years. “Of course.”

“Lying’s a sin, Tyler.” He states blandly and Tyler clenches his jaw.

“Stop calling me Tyler. I don’t even know your name. I don’t like that you know mine.” 

“I’m Josh.” Joshua feels too formal, he thinks, and Josh sounds approachable. He’s glad his parents gave him that name before he died, glad that the Bishops let him keep it. Not everyone gets to keep their name when they die and are recruited, but Joshua--Joshua was already a Biblical name. The Bishops felt like it was suitable for him, and Josh felt that just Josh was suitable for Tyler. 

“Josh,” The name echoes on Tyler’s lips as he tries it out, “I used to know a Josh. A long time ago.” Josh swallows thickly, nonchalantly blinking as he lets Tyler process. It’s not appropriate to speak of personal connections between the spirit and the savior, even if the personal connection is just that--personal. There was a reason Josh was chosen specifically for Tyler; he remembers the bright smiles on Tyler’s crooked teeth when they were in middle school, remembers the way Tyler used to hum to him and erratically dance around him when a song he particularly liked played on the radio. 

There is no personal connection between this Tyler and this Josh, though. Two spirits who have found themselves trapped in the abyss, inside of the Five14 church with their terrible shag carpet and shadows casting across the pews as the sun begins to set. There is nothing personal about their relationship this way, and that’s how Josh intends to keep it. 

When he died, Josh hadn’t looked how he did now. It was no surprise that Tyler didn’t recognize him; at the time of his death, Josh had just been a kid, a misguided kid who got into too much trouble and crossed too many lines trying to rebel against his Christian upbringing. It’s what ultimately lead to his downfall, what lead him to his own saving. He had staked his claim into Tyler the moment he’d seen his name show up among the Bishops files. Nico had tried to remind Josh that personal connections were the downfall of these missions, but being the best of the best, Josh edged himself into the position of Tyler’s savior. 

“Well, now you know another Josh,” Tyler let out a weak laugh at the joke, a joke that wasn’t quite a joke but still.

“I don’t need another Josh. Sorry, dude, but--You’re just not the kind of guy my parents would approve of me hanging around.” Tyler fiddled with his collared shirt, thumbing over the buttons. The door of the chapel creaked open behind them, a familiar voice belonging to his mother flooded through the room as Tyler lifted his head. 

“Tyler, who are you talking to? You’re supposed to be praying.” 

Tyler’s eyes searched across the cathedral; he hadn’t heard Josh’s footsteps retreat, and the door had only opened once. Where did Josh go? Lifting himself to his feet, Tyler glanced across the closest few pews before he turned his attention to his disgruntled looking mother. Her pale features didn’t reflect Tyler’s tanned skin, eyes didn’t reflect Tyler’s in any sense. She was holy. Tyler wasn’t. 

“Yeah. I just hit hour seven. I’m done for the day.” He coughed and his mother pulled a tight face, glancing around the pews before she turned her attention back to Tyler. 

“Do another hour. We can stop and get you something for dinner on the way home.”  Tyler nodded curtly at his mother, taking his seat once more as he heard his mother sigh, pulling the heavy wooden door shut behind her. Prayer never came throughout the next hour, the seconds of the year draining down the glass as Josh watched Tyler through the half open door of the confessional booth. Shaking fingers and disheveled hair. If he was going to save this boy, he’d have to do it soon. He did only have so long before his world quite literally went up into flames.

#

“Do you remember Josh Dun?” 

Jenna lifts her head from where it’s buried in her science textbook, papers strewn across the table as she works at the hypothesis for her biology homework. “Josh Dun? Yeah, I guess so.” She says, popping her lips a bit before she lifts an eyebrow, “He’s the kid who drowned, right?” 

“Yeah, right,” Tyler murmurs, picking at the skin around his cuticles before shrugging his shoulders, “He--We were really good friends, once.” 

“That’s cool,” Jenna says, staring at Tyler for a moment before setting her pencil down against the notebook she had been writing in. “Why are you asking? Hasn’t Josh Dun been dead for, like, four years?” 

“Three and a half,” Tyler says, almost defensively, “I just--” He shakes his head after a moment, trying not to focus too long on his own actions and longer on Jenna’s. 

“What, Ty?” She asks, voice suddenly softer and when Tyler looks up, Jenna’s reaching out to place her hand over his own. “You know, we’re best friends. You can tell me anything.” 

“I think,” Tyler says after a moment of consideration, after letting a pregnant pause settle over the two of them before he finally lets out a gentle sigh, “I think I saw him.” 

Jenna’s features contort into confusion even as her thumb strokes over the back of Tyler’s hand, “What do you mean you saw him?” 

Tyler shrugs, as if it’s not a total bomb he’s dropped on her--that he’s seen a dead man walking. “At church. I was praying, and some guy--his name was Josh, and he had the same kind of facial structure, I guess,” Tyler pursed his lips a bit before shaking his head, “No, it’s stupid.” 

“It’s not stupid.” Jenna tries, brushing a strand of her blonde hair behind her ear, “I just… I think you’re still mourning, Ty,” She says, “Your parents… They never really gave you a chance to do that, right?” Tyler halts for a moment before nodding and Jenna gave him a sympathetic smile before patting the back of his hand. 

“I just think that you need some time to get over it. You haven’t met a Josh since then, and sometimes people just… Look similar.” She giggles, “Sorry, I was trying to find a way to phrase that better, but you know what I mean.” 

Tyler nods a bit before turning his hand over inside of Jenna’s, letting their palms fit together before he squeezes her hand lightly. “Yeah, thanks.” 

#

“Do you ever think about how… Weird your brother is?” 

Tatum doesn’t mean for it to be as offensive as it is. Hell , Tyler thinks, maybe it isn’t offensive. He is weird. He spends hours sitting in church every Sunday, he can’t focus in class because he’s more focused on digging his nails into his skin to break the tension of the screaming echo in his head, he spends every evening sitting on the floor of his and his brother Zack’s shared bedroom playing an old keyboard his mother thrifted for him. Generally, he has his headphones plugged into the side and writes nonsensical lyrics inside of an old math notebook. 

It looks like the inside of his brain feels when he flips through the pages and is met with equations he’d done in tenth grade underneath words that are reflected from his chaotic mind. 

“He’s not weird .” Zack replies, wiping at the corners of his mouth with a napkin to get rid of the pizza grease before he spares a glance to where Tyler is hunched over his keyboard on the floor. 

“Zack--” Tatum pushes a bit, “He’s a little weird. Like, haven’t you noticed how he never talks to me when I’m around? He’s said hello as many times as I can count on one hand, and he doesn’t ever say anything more. Plus, Jessica said he acts kind of… Slow in class.” 

“Slow?” Zack furrows his brow, “I know my brother and he’s not slow. If anything, he’s kind of, like, a creative genius. School just isn’t his forte. Isn’t mine, either, but you’re not calling me slow.” 

Tatum sets her jaw and lets out a sigh, reaching over to place her hand to rest on Zach’s. “You know I don’t mean it in a bad way,” She says sympathetically, “Just--I’m worried about him. Your mom and sister are, too. We just don’t think he’s progressing like you are, and we’re worried he’s… Stuck in some kind of loop.” 

Tyler raises his eyebrows at that. He knows it’s impolite to eavesdrop, and even more impolite to have such rude thoughts about his brother’s girlfriend for talking about him in such a way, but he can’t help himself in either situation. Stuck in a loop? Why would Tyler be stuck in a loop? It didn’t make any sense. 

“What do you mean?” Zack asks, setting the napkin down on the empty plate of pizza before he spares a glance to his girlfriend. 

“Like-- Okay, I heard he’s been asking about Josh Dun, that kid who drowned a couple of years ago. Isn’t that weird? Why would he bring that up again?” Tatum raises her own eyebrows and stares at Zack as if she expects an answer, “Our town has already been through so much because of his death, and now Tyler is trying to rehash it?”

There’s a pregnant pause between the three of them, and Tyler presses down on a C# to flood his brain with something more than the racing thoughts he’s having. 

“I don’t know.” Zack replies and Tatum tuts. 

“Maybe you should ask him.” He can feel her eyes boring holes into the side of his head. He takes a breath and tips his head up in a way that looks inconspicuous, like he’s just felt eyes on him and hasn’t been listening in to the entire conversation. Their eyes meet for a fleeting moment before she’s quick to look away, something of panic lacing her expression as she looks back to Zack.

“Maybe I don’t want to.”

Tatum rolls her eyes and grabs the plate, standing up off of the side of the twin bed before she casts a glance between the two of them. “I’m just saying, if anyone could get answers out of him, maybe it’d be you.” 

Zack laughs, it’s cold and almost lifeless. “You really don’t understand my relationship with my brother at all.” He relaxes into the bed as Tatum shakes her head, brunette hair framing her face before she leaves the bedroom to get rid of the plate and their trash. 

Tyler hopes it’s the end of the conversation, the end of the interaction overall, and he presses his fingers into the keys once more only to be interrupted by his brother saying his name loudly and tossing a balled up sock at the side of his head. He lets out a sigh and pulls his headphones off, trying to settle them around his neck easily in hopes he doesn’t further damage the duct-tape pair of headphones. “What?” He asks, picking his head up and turning to face his brother. 

“Why are you asking around about Josh Dun?” Tyler shouldn’t be surprised that his brother has cut right to the chase, not wanting to waste any more time talking to Tyler than he needs to. 

“Oh,” Tyler shrugs his shoulders and looks back down to the keyboard, “It’s nothing.” 

“It can’t be nothing.” Zack states, “He’s been dead three years, and suddenly you’re bringing it back up again.” 

“I--” Tyler swallows thick around the growing lump in his throat, “I thought I saw him. The other day,” He says quietly, “I was at church, doing my prayers and I just thought--”

“That’s stupid, Tyler,” Zack shakes his head and sighs, “He’s dead. There’s no way you could’ve seen him.” 

Tyler picks his head up again and looks over toward his brother, gnawing at the inside of his cheek. Doesn’t Zack believe in divine intervention? Doesn’t he believe in guardian angels? Doesn’t he believe ? Maybe Tyler doesn’t need to be the one praying every Sunday, rather his brother who doesn’t seem to understand the concept of being intercepted by God and something more. Instead of trying to fight back, Tyler lets his shoulders slump and he shakes his head before letting out a quiet breath. 

“Yeah, guess so.” He replies and pulls his headphones back on, glancing up at Tatum as she enters the room once more. “Hey,” He murmurs before dropping his head and pressing his fingers into the keys once more. 

She holds up her pinky and mouths, ‘Five,’ at Zack before joining him again on the bed. 

“Maybe my brother is weird.” Zack murmurs before shaking his head as Tatum looks over toward him. “I’ll tell you later.”

#

The darkness is a comfortable feeling, Tyler realizes. It’s a hollow chamber, a place where his voice doesn’t resound against the walls and instead sinks into nothingness, just as Tyler himself does. He holds himself steady, black stretches as far as his imagination will let it, and he feels at home here. 

Home.

Did he just call the darkness home? 

His eyelashes flutter against his cheeks, a slow breath followed by the closing of his eyes. He can hardly tell the difference between his eyes being opened and closed; suspended in the abyss of nothingness, he’s at the helm of endless possibly. There’s something to be said about the way that he feels; the concave of his chest swirls with a bubbling terror that melts in unto itself. He’s not scared, though, how could he be when this is his home? There are no demons here to crawl up his spine and wrap their dirty hands around his throat, suffocating him and the only means of expression he has left. In the real world, the world where he spends hours upon hours every Sunday praying for release, he’s losing the sense of himself he’s never really sure he had.

A creak, a ripple across the spanse of silence causes his eyes to open. Brown meets red and Tyler can feel the tension wrap itself around his throat like the thick rope of a noose. He knows the face in front of him, standing determined with his-- its? --fingers wrapped around the white straps of a red backpack. His eyes are drawn to the sharp jawline, where his tanned skin disappears underneath the same black oily substance that follows Tyler in his sleep, that coats his own neck and his wrists until he’s trembling and screaming for peace. The only thing that stands out about him are the red eyes, an abnormality that Tyler is not accustomed to seeing anywhere outside of his dreams. He would think this is a dream, but it feels too real to be true. 

The man’s limbs are too lanky, he can see the way his kneecaps jut out beneath the leggings he’s got on beneath his shorts, and the curve of his elbow is too sharp. Tyler would make a judgement on his hands, how his fingers are too long and too thick and curve around the material of the backpack like snakes constricting their prey, but staring at the black for too long brings a taste of bile to the back of his throat. His clothes are both ill-fitting and casually perfect for him; the material drapes over his body, catches the dips and peaks of his body and settles around him. 

Tyler knows the face of this man too well. 

Tyler knows him too well because this man is him. It’s a mirror of clarity, though the glass is mindfully absent. There is nothing between the two of them, just a mere few feet of space and Tyler’s labored breathing. Throughout all of his hallucinations, he’s never seen himself in such a manner. Seeing double isn’t out of the ordinary, but seeing himself -- there’s nothing in Tyler’s life that could have prepared him for such a feeling. 

The silence is shattered like glass, no more ripples of tension across the sea of the stilled water, as the man speaks, head cocked to the side as he does his own intake over Tyler. “You know,” The voice is distorted, it rings through Tyler’s ears like he’s just walked out of a loud venue and a bass line is still riveting through his eardrums, “You deserved to die, Tyler.” Die, die, die, diediedie . The word echoes in his brain like a polyphonic symphony, each resounding echo an imitation in on itself. 

“I’m not dead,” His own voice is weak and weary as he speaks, a testament to the aching in his bones as he tries to settle the score with himself. This isn’t himself. This thing isn’t who he is. “I’m--I’m alive. More alive than I’ve ever been,” White lies don’t count when you’re not in linear time, right?

“Oh, Tyler,” Lips curl around the distortion, unblinking red eyes meeting brown in the darkness. It feels like the only light he’s ever been, the piercing red capturing Tyler unwillingly. “How little they’ve told you.” A tipped head, black painted fingers releasing the straps of the backpack as they settle at the person’s sides. His sides. “Don’t try to convince yourself that you’re not me,” He chirps pleasantly, voice reverberating through Tyler’s chest. “You and I--we’re one in the same.” 

A part of Tyler aches to say this isn’t who he is, this isn’t a version of himself created for torture and torment although he knows, down deep in the center of his chest where his heart is wrapped in layers of the same deep sludge his demons bury him in, that it is. “I’m not dead, I can’t be dead, I’m holy, I’m making myself holy .” His words are an unconscious stream of thought, an unfocused lens into the back of his head as he tries to differentiate himself from the monster in front of his eyes. 

Dried lips quirk into a smile, and it’s the first time Tyler realizes there’s blood dried in the corners of his mouth. He figures it’s connected to the same dried blood that lingers around his nostrils, a nose bleed of some epic proportion or maybe-- A tide turns in his stomach, and he would feel as if he were falling if a steady hand didn’t reach out and wrap itself around his throat. It’s something he’s felt before, the warm pressure of three fingers digging into the side of his neck and dragging against his skin in a measure to mark him.

“Bull shit , Joseph,” He breathes easily, words cutting through Tyler like a sharp butcher’s knife as he steadies Tyler with the graceless hand, “You and I both know that all of this is for naught, that your sin-ridden soul is going to be dropped into the arms of Lucifer himself and that you, kid, are just another fucking misguided attempt at life. You shouldn’t have even been born, really, but He gave you the chance. You fucking ruined it, just as you ruin everything else. Just as you’ve ruined your family. Just as you’ve ruined your community. Just as you’re ruining Josh .” 

The mere mention of his name makes Tyler feel feral, every inch of his soul lights up in a flame that is unquenchable. He feels electric in the worst way possible, like the next brush of exposure against his skin will set him aflame and he’ll be left to burn in his own misery. “Don’t you dare-” He tries, spitting at the man as the fingers only tighten around his neck. 

“Don’t you see, Tyler?” The voice is grating on his ears, the distortion sinks into his bones and drags a heavy momentum behind it, anchoring him to the nothingness. 

It’s familiar in the way that the man itself is; he remembers the first time he’d heard the distortion, sitting on the dusty chair in his parent’s basement with his brother hovering over his shoulder. Making music was supposed to be a source of joy for Tyler, and Zack had insisted that if he were going to do it, he was going to include his brother in on the journey. He’d succumbed after a few days of begging, leading the two of them to the computer as Tyler sorts through the vocal effects out of a pack he’d ripped off the Internet somewhere. The effect was gory and left tension in Tyler’s shoulders, and as much as Zack liked it, it left him feeling sick to his stomach. Just as it does now. 

“You’re good for nothing, Tyler, and that’s why you let yourself burn. That’s why they let you die.” 

It’s almost as if on cue the entirety of the empty space around them lights up, a burning red that leaves Tyler stumbling backward and pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes as he tries not to let it swallow him whole. He sputters, chokes on his own words as he screams out for forgiveness, and doesn’t stop shaking until there’s a voice echoing through the resounding noise in his eardrums. It’s his name, someone’s calling his name, someone’s begging him to tell them what’s wrong and Tyler knows who it is. The mark in his palm aches at the noise, at the voice, and only then does Tyler force his hands away. 

Brown eyes meet brown eyes. His eyes are first drawn to the sanctuary, grand and beautiful as it stands in its pristine glory behind the body that Tyler’s mind is aching to look at. Pale light spills through stained glass and his vision swims in hues of blues and pinks; nothing is red, nothing is surging from the open snake-pits beneath his feet to bite at his ankles. No, there’s only peace in the form of pews and tiled floors and crucifixes pinned above doorways. 

#

The rules are simple, and there are very few of them. 

One: Don’t tell your subject that you’re the final judgement for their soul. That you’re the last saving grace that they may or may not have; that you’re the last one who tips the scale one way or another.

Two: Don’t let your subject find out they’re dead.

#

There’s only peace in the form of Josh. 

Tyler stares, doe eyes rimmed red and tears springing from them like a leaking faucet. This may be the worst he’s let anyone see him at in a long time, but it only feels right. Vulnerability only feels right in the cradled, warm hands of Josh. 

“Josh,” His voice breaks on the word alone, and suddenly Tyler is overwhelmed with the vision of Josh. He closes the distance to kneel in front of Tyler, hands resting against the polyester covered material of Tyler’s knees as he stares. His eyes remind Tyler of terrain trails, the soft dirt on the forest floor at the end of his street that Tyler spent his youthful summers galloping through, playing pretend with his brother down by the creek. There’s a serenity behind his irises, and he feels as if there is something unspoken, a bond that holds him here in Josh’s gaze. “ Josh ,” He tries again, voice watery and fingers aching to reach out. He can’t, though, not here where anyone could happen upon them and chastise them for their unnatural urges. For Tyler’s unnatural urges. 

“Are you okay?” His voice is soft, fluttering snow against Tyler’s burning skin that melts and eases Tyler down to his bones. He’s a quivering mess beneath Josh’s gaze, cuticles bleeding and pink lips bitten raw. 

“Josh,” Tyler’s voice is softer this time, shrinks in onto itself as he does onto himself. There’s no grand gesture of peace, no purging moment of wisdom that pulses through the room and wraps around the two of them as they stare into each other like there’s one thing in the world that matters. No, there’s only Tyler and Josh, and only the first admission to break the resolve Josh has spent so long trying to build up. 

“I think I’m dead. I think they let me die.” 

#

Josh has royally fucked up the second rule. 

There’s a shift in Tyler after he finds out, wet eyes meet Josh’s as he attempts to steady his own breathing. 

#

They let you die . The words swim around Tyler’s head like a hymn, sink in between the spaces of his ribs and the crevices of the smiles that don’t quite meet his eyes while he has dinner with his parents. It doesn’t quite make sense, even after Josh described the situation--this is real, this is the reality that he lives. He’s here, in Columbus, Ohio, with his two brothers and his sister, with his mother and father, with Josh.

Josh.

No one knows Josh, not for who he is. Every time Tyler brings up Josh, he’s met with looks of sympathy and a gentle reminder that Josh is dead. Josh, who died when he was thirteen the summer before they were set to begin different high schools. 

#

“I was at your funeral. It was a beautiful service,” Brown eyes find brown eyes, there is a lingering in the stare that the two share. There are more words hanging off of the tip of Josh’s pink tongue, there are more words that linger in the between that settles itself over their shared occupancy room. 

“I’m not dead.” The voice is soft but gruff; it hasn’t been used in a couple of weeks, and it looks like the kid hasn’t sleep in a couple of weeks, either. “I couldn’t have a funeral if I’m not dead.” His voice cracks on the word not . It’s almost as if he doesn’t even believe himself, believe in the words that he’s saying. 

“Of course you’re not,” Josh echoes the sentiment gently, and Tyler lifts his head a bit, neck stretching as he rolls his shoulders and tries to rid himself of the ache in the back of his neck. “You’re just--”

“I’m just what , Josh?” Where there should be venom, there’s not. Tyler’s voice lacks an urgency; rather, his voice is chalked full of desperation. It’s the same desperation Josh felt when he thought Tyler was going to die again, the same desperation he felt when Tyler’s pulse slowed underneath his fingertips, the same desperation in Josh’s own voice when he called 911. There are very few times that Josh has ever let himself be heard by someone that wasn't his targeted soul, but when Tyler's eyes rolled into the back of his head and he passed out, pulse stopping, Josh hadn't known what else to do. “What could I possibly be if I’m not dead?” 

It’s a bold choice that Josh makes, settling himself at the foot of Tyler’s hospital bed. Tyler’s feet adjust for the new, unexpected visitor. They take solace against his chest, arms wrapping around his bare kneecaps as he stares at Josh. Josh swallows thickly as he stares at Tyler. He takes in every inch of the boys face, every plane of his smooth skin that’s disrupted by acne and oil, every dip of his hollowed cheekbones, every shifting color in the blue-black circles underneath his brown eyes. “Tyler,” The word is held carefully on his tongue, tongue wrapped around his name like a prayer. There’s only so many ways Josh can ask this question, only so many ways he’ll get a proper answer from the boy. 

“Tyler,” He says again and Tyler sighs, lowers his head to fixate his eyes on Josh’s and the two of them share the moment. It’s filled with tension, it sends an aching through Josh’s bones and he gnaws at his lower lip without even realizing it. 

“What, Josh?” The sting comes with the way he says Josh’s name this time, with the way Tyler spits it in his face like it’s the only thing he can do. Josh thinks it might be the only thing Tyler thinks he can do. 

“Are you alive, Tyler?” 

Silence lingers between the two of them. It’s enough that Josh can hear the murmuring of the voices in the next room, of the way the machine monitoring Tyler’s vitals beeps to let the nurses scurrying around the floor know that he’s still alive and well, that he doesn’t need to be checked in on yet. Tyler looks as if he can’t even breathe, eyes unblinking as he stares at Josh. Josh swallows thickly, staring at the boy like it’s the only thing left on this Earth that he can do. It is the only thing he should do, he was sent to the surface to protect Tyler after all. “Tyler?” Maybe the question was too loaded; maybe it made Tyler think too hard after the attempt on his life, maybe maybe maybe--

“I’m not alive, Josh.” A blink. A breath. Josh notes his Tyler’s gaze is glassy, how his voice wavers when he speaks and the way his jaw clicks when he clenches it. “I don’t think I’ve been alive for a very long time.” 

The next few seconds flash before Josh’s eyes even before happening; Tyler’s lifeless body goes limp against the hospital pillows he’d been propped up against for the morning and the incessant beeping of the heart-rate monitor screams. A flurry of nurses scramble into the room, screaming words that Josh has heard both too few and far too many times during his time serving for Him. He stumbles off of the bed, onto his feet even though the scrubbed nurses flow around him with ease. 

It’s almost as if he’s not even there. 

It’s almost as if neither of them are. 

#

“Joshua.” 

The voice is gruff, arms resting at his side as dark red eyes stare into what Josh feels is his soul. He can make out Nico’s figure from the vial in the center of the room, backlighting him as if he was an angel. Josh has to remind himself that he is. 

“Nico.” His voice is as professional as possible, trying not to let the emotion seep through. There is so much emotion bubbling through him--he can feel his heart ache as he thinks about Tyler. He thinks about seeing Tyler’s lifeless body in the hospital bed, about the way Tyler had been cold to him for not telling the truth. He doesn’t know how long Tyler had known, doesn’t know whether or not Tyler was actually angry about the lie. If Josh had told him why, would he be forgiven? If Josh had told him why... Would Tyler have understood?

“Joshua,” Nico repeats, “You’ve failed.” 

It’s the first time Nico has ever said those words to Josh--generally, returning back to Dema leaves him with a pat on the back and a congratulatory praise from his leader. It comes with a few days off, but Josh is always itching to get back into the game. He’s not used to failure, not used to being the one who has to hang his head. “I’m sorry--” Josh’s voice breaks, he can’t make out Nico’s face through the veil but he can feel the disappointment soaking through his skin radiating off of the man. “--Please, just give me a second chance. I need to help.” 

“You can’t help him, Joshua,” Nico replies, the same cold voice that Josh has come to know so easily and eagerly over the past few years. The only reason Josh remembers he’s dead when he’s in Dema is the fact that Nico is so lifeless himself. “You’ve failed him. You’ve failed his family. You’ve failed me.” 

“Please,” Josh tries, he can feel the sting in the corners of his eyes as he stares at Nico, clenching his hands into fists as he averts his eyes to stare at the vial. It radiates no heat, just a lifeless, white illumination in the center of the room. It reminds Josh of Tyler; where he was dead, trapped in the purgatory of his own creation, he was still so bright. He was full of humor, of joy, of love. He was more than this, more than anything any of them--especially Nico or Josh themselves--knew. “Just give me one more chance. I’ve never disappointed you before, Nico--in all my years, this is the first time I’ve failed.” 

A pregnant silence lingers between the two of them, Josh’s hands still tight--knuckles white from the pure need that builds through his body. He doesn’t know what to expect; Nico has never been lenient on any of the other angels, but Josh isn’t any regular savior. He’s the best of the best, and when he lifts his head to face Nico again, that’s evident across his face. “I’m going back whether you allow me to or not.” He says, finality in his voice as he speaks to Nico. It’s the first time he’s failed and the first time he’s ever spoken back to his leader. He figures if he’s going to become just another savior, just someone else to be replaced by another quote-unquote ‘perfect savior’. “This one is mine, and I’m going to save him, Nico.”

“He already knows he’s dead, Joshua,” Nico’s gruff voice replies, “How do you figure you’re going to do that?” 

“You’re going to reset the clock.” 

Nico scoffs, a noise Josh has only heard directed at the other saviors before. “There is no resetting the clock, Joshua,” Nico replies, “You’ve failed, and you have to deal with your failure.”

Josh’s eyes narrow, shoulders squared as he looks at Nico. There’s always been a deep-set fear in Josh when it came to Nico--the man was bigger than Josh in size, had a harsher, rougher exterior, and he was supposed to be one of the lead saviors. There wasn’t supposed to be any kind of negotiating with Nico; everything that the man said was law in Josh’s eyes. Up until now. “You are going to reset the clock, Nicholas, and I’m going to save Tyler Joseph’s soul.”

Tension settles over the room. Josh stares at Nico, stares at the man who he figures has done nothing more than rolled his eyes and already written Josh off. He tries not to let the emotion he’s feeling show on his face, his fingers shake from where they’re tucked against his side and he breathes out slowly. The heavy silence that settles over the room shatters when Nico finally moves, body illuminated by the vial as he makes his way toward the oak table. Josh swallows thickly as he watches Nico’s fingers drag against the dark surface of the table, halting just as the reach the center. 

Just as they reach the hourglass. 

“Joshua,” Nico’s voice is gruff, and Josh can feel red eyes trained on him through the veil that covers his face. 

“Yes?” His voice tremors, fingers clenching into themselves. 

Nico flips the hourglass without any further explanation, settling it on the table once more as he makes his way through the arched doorway. “You have one year.”

#

Tyler’s seventeen and terrified. 

He can hear the muffled sermon being given by his uncle, and he knows that he should be paying attention. While it’s crucial to be paying attention, there’s something else that has captured his attention. He lifts his head after saying ‘amen’ and notices it through its scent first, the heavy smoke filling his lungs before he turns his attention back toward the glass doors of the church. Between the front steps and the main entrance is the reception, and Tyler can see smoke filling the area. No one around him bats an eye, even as his anxiety sparks, and when he turns his attention to his mother, she hardly even breathes. 

It takes a long moment for Tyler to realize that hardly anyone breathes, that even as his uncle’s sermon drones on and on, everyone around him has become like machinery. Swallowing thickly, Tyler lets his eyes scan over the stuffed pews before he raises himself to his feet. Each step is more dreadful than the last as he makes his way toward the reception, shoving the door open and taking in a steady stream of breath albeit the smoke that hangs low in the room. His eyes water and burn as he opens the door to the basement; his vision swims with images of fire nipping at the stairs, and as black as the smoke is, he feels like he can see clear as day. 

Stepping down the staircase slowly, Tyler holds onto the guardrail as he takes every step--although he knows it won’t give way beneath his feet, the rational part of his mind still believes it will. They creak under his feet from old age and the pressure his weight puts on them, but as soon as he reaches the bottom, he comes face to face with the source of the smoke. 

“What are you doing? Who are you?” He asks, shielding his eyes from the heat and the light emitting off of the fire in front of him. It’s in a circle around the room, the same circle that Wednesday night Bible study’s chairs are set up in, and Tyler swallows harshly. He knows how this ends. 

“You know me.” Red hair, brown eyes, strong jaw, beautiful nose. Tyler has no idea who this man is. 

“No, I don’t.” 

The man shakes his head and turns on his heel, murmuring something to himself about Nico and resetting the clock and why Tyler?

“How do you know my name?” He asks, voice suddenly quiet and Josh turns back around, a look of sympathy across his face as he stares at Tyler. 

“Because, Tyler,” Josh swallows and his eyes flutter shut, it makes Tyler’s stomach turn from how beautiful he finds the long eyelashes settling against the man’s cheeks. Leviticus 18:22. 

“Because?” 

“Because, I’m here to save your life.” 

Tyler stares incredulously at the man; his eyes are rimmed red, unnaturally so, and Tyler’s drawn to him like a moth to a flame. “You lit my church on fire,” He states matter-of-factly, “You’re trying to end my life if anything.”

When Tyler blinks, as does Josh. He breathes out and tightens his fingers into fists, jaw clenched as he stares ahead at the other man. “Tyler,” His tone has a sense of finality in it, Tyler’s stomach lurches as he stares, “This is how you die.” 

“So you are trying to kill me.” Tyler laughs lifelessly, panic evident across his features as he stares at Josh. 

“No, but I’m trying to help you take control of your own death.” Josh breathes as if it’s the easiest thing in the world to say, although internally it’s crushing him. He’s breaking every rule he’s been told to follow. “You’ve been seventeen for the past three years. It’s almost as if you’re stuck in—in some kind of loop. I was sent to help you, to get you out of this purgatory. I failed you, Tyler, I failed you and I failed Nico. This is my last shot, and I just—this is the only way I knew how to save you.” 

“What do you mean? I turned seventeen in December, I’ve never--” Tyler tries and Josh shakes his head, sadness lacing itself through his features. 

“December of 2005, yes,” Josh nods, “It’s almost been four years since then, Tyler.” 

“Don’t be incredulous,” Tyler shakes his head, “No, I’m seventeen, and you’re burning down my church!” 

“I’m saving you, Tyler!” Josh replies, pursing his lips before he finally lets out a dejected sigh and settles himself on the floor in the center of the circle. For the heat that surrounds them and the flames that threaten to nip at Tyler’s heels, Tyler feels cold. It’s worrisome, but he knows that it must just be the panic, right? Dead men don’t walk. “Do you ever wonder why you pray so often and yet nothing ever changes?” 

Tyler blinks as he stares at Josh, swallowing thickly around the lump in his throat, “How do you know about that?” 

“I know everything about you, Tyler,” Josh shrugs. Tyler notices how small he’s made himself look; his knees are pulled to his chest, his arms are slung around his knees, and his lips are pressed together tightly. “I know that you were born on December first in 1988, I know that you have two brothers and a sister, I know your mother is a school teacher and that we were friends before I died.” 

"Before you died--?" The realization hits him like a ton of bricks. “Josh?” He asks in a small voice; the face is much different than the one Tyler knew prior to his death, it’s much more mature and tired-looking, but it’s the same Josh underneath it all. It’s the same Josh he played in the forest at the end of his street with when they were ten, the same Josh he raced bikes with and got scars on his knees with, the same Josh that he mourned for months over despite being separated from him physically. 

“Yeah,” Josh nods, “Josh.” 

“But,” Tyler shakes his head and sinks to his knees, itching to reach out for Josh. He’s almost worried that if he does, his hands will go right through him as if he’s a spirit. “You’re dead, Josh. I--I have to be dreaming,” His breathing gets heavier as panic sets in further, “You’re dead.” 

Josh takes the initiative and closes the space between them, leaning up on his knees and cupping Tyler’s face in his hands, his eyes rimmed red from unshed tears. Tyler could get lost in the honey brown eyes of the man ahead of him, and his hands lift to cover Josh’s own around his face. Josh is real. Josh is right there with him. 

“You’re dead, too, Tyler.” 

Tyler’s eyelids flutter closed as he processes what Josh says, tries to keep his head on straight as he listens to the words. “That’s impossible,” He echoes himself, “I can’t be dead. How did I die?” 

“Like this; you created this fire, Tyler. You died from smoke inhalation. It was ruled as a suicide.” Josh’s voice is quiet and steady, like a wave that crashes softly into Tyler. 

“I--I did this?” 

“Yeah.” Tyler’s eyelids flutter open and he stares at Josh, moving his own hands to cup the back of Josh’s head as he stares at the man. “Tyler?” Josh asks quietly and Tyler hums under his breath, fingers moving through the red strands of the man’s hair at the nape of his neck. 

“Why are you trying to save me, Josh?” He asks quietly and Josh purses his lips before he lets his eyes falter to Tyler’s lips for a moment. 

“I’m--I’m an angel, Tyler, and I save people’s souls. Or, I try to, at least. So far I’ve been successful on everyone else’s but yours.” Tyler nods as if he understands although his eyes tell a different story, “And I had a year to save your soul and I failed, so I made my boss reset the clock and it brought me back here. I skipped the entire year, I just brought myself here so I could--” He clenches his jaw and swallows. 

Tyler raises an eyebrow. “So you could what?” 

Josh lets out a slow breath, “So I could die with you, Tyler.” 

Tyler’s hands clench around the strands of Josh’s hair and he lets out a sharp breath. Josh stays quiet as Tyler processes, as the words swim around in his head and he’s slammed with the realization that he’s sitting, living through his death right now. Tears well at the corners of his eyes and Josh’s hands move to wipe them away as they spill over, the intimacy of the moment making Tyler shudder. There’s a pregnant pause between the two of them before Tyler gives Josh a look, staring at the man with an unreadable expression. 

“So, Josh,” Tyler clears his throat, “How do we die, then?”

#

“Are you sure about this?” 

Josh pulls the coat tighter around his center, shoving his hands into his pockets as he stares at Tyler. Snow falls just beyond the edge of the tree, and Josh watches as Tyler nods hesitantly. “I think I need to do it.” He says with a wavering sense of finality. “You said you did it.” 

“Well,” Josh stares pointedly at the man, “I’m not you. It’s not my funeral.” 

Tyler cracks a bit of a smile and shrugs, “Isn’t that even more reason to do it? Because it’s my funeral. I should be able to see what they’re saying about me.” His own coat is unbuttoned and looks as if it had been haphazardly pulled on, like they were rushed out the door instead of having come down from the clouds. 

“We can’t get any closer, Tyler,” Josh says, fixing his glasses on his nose and glancing over toward the congregated crowd, “You know how you saw me when I came down? They can see us, too. I’m already bending the rules by doing this.” 

Tyler reaches out and brushes a hand through the dark curls on the top of Josh’s head, pursing his lips a bit before he shrugs. “I just-- I need this closure.” Tyler murmurs quietly and Josh nods sharply, glancing over his shoulder. 

“Well,” Josh breathes quietly, “Can you get it from here?” 

Tyler nods and takes his place next to Josh, putting his own hands into the pockets of his jacket as they watch the crowd form around the raised casket; it’s a private, closed funeral for family members and some of Tyler’s closest friends and community members in late November. “I figured they would’ve had it on my birthday,” He murmurs quietly and Josh shakes his head, knowing the full reason as to why they didn’t was so Tyler’s mom could still celebrate the day without having to think of burying her son on the same day. 

It’s a quick and quiet ceremony; in a low tone, Josh explains that they’re burying an empty casket because Tyler’s body was too burnt from the fire to do anything but cremate him, yet his mother wanted this type of ceremony. Tyler doesn’t say much, rather he watches as his sister lays a rose on the top of his casket and as his mother sobs into his father’s arms. There’s a speech given by his uncle and his brother Zack, detailing all of the good memories of Tyler that they have. Josh doesn’t blink twice when one of Tyler’s hands slips out of his pocket and into Josh’s, fingers intertwining themselves with Josh’s as wet tears roll down his cheeks. 

“We should probably go, they’ll be done soon.” Josh murmurs and Tyler nods, bringing a free hand to his cheeks to wipe away the wetness before he stares over at Josh. 

“Okay.” 

“Anyways, there’s someone I want you to meet.” 

#

“Stop bouncing.” 

Tyler lets out a dejected sigh and rolls his eyes a bit, picking at the end of the sweatshirt he’s wearing. It’s Josh’s, a large oversized green hoodie with a yellow ‘x’ across the chest. Josh had explained earlier in the morning once they’d gotten up and he’d given it to Tyler that the man they were meeting, Nico, couldn’t see the yellow. It was a sense of protection for Josh, that even if Nico could see everything else about Josh’s life, he couldn’t see the yellow spots that he wore and couldn’t cut into his heart. 

Tyler hadn’t thought twice before he threw his arms around Josh’s shoulders and kissed him square on the mouth like it was normal. Like it was natural for them to do so. Josh had stared wide-eyed at Tyler for a long moment before his arms were sliding around Tyler’s waist and pulling him closer, kissing him with a feverish intent. 

“Have I cut into your heart?” Tyler asked breathlessly as he pulled away from Josh, eyeing the man in front of him and Josh laughed, loud and beautiful. 

“As deep as you could’ve gone, yeah.” Josh nodded and Tyler smiled. “We should get going, though.” 

It was a short trek from Josh’s apartment to the building that housed Nico and the rest of the Bishops. Josh ushered Tyler into the elevator, pressing the button for the ninth floor and settling on his heels as the doors slid closed and they began their trek upward. Their fingers are intertwined the moment the doors open at the top and Josh leads Tyler into the large room, dark despite the vial that is off-center in the middle of the room. There’s an hourglass sat on the oak table, the black sand all settled at the bottom of the glass, and Josh doesn’t make eye contact with Tyler as he scans the room and his eyes fall onto it. 

“Josh,” Tyler speaks quietly, “He’s not going to…” Tyler falls silent at the footsteps that approach, and his fingers tightened against Josh’s as a man in a red robe enters the room ahead of them. 

“I won’t hurt you, Tyler.” The man’s voice is low and gruff and Tyler clenches his jaw a bit, even as Josh’s thumb strokes across the back of his hand. 

“Tyler,” Josh says quietly, glancing at the man before he brings his eyes back to Nico, “This is Nico. He’s my Bishop, and now--he’s yours, too.” Tyler stares at the man ahead of them, holding his breath as he waits for something else in the room to happen. It happens in Josh shifting to look at Tyler, giving him a gentle smile before he leans in a bit. “I promise, he’s not going to hurt you, okay? He-- He wants you to be one of us.” 

“One of us?” Tyler echoes quietly and Josh nods, chewing at his lower lip.

“I want you to be one of my saviors, Tyler,” Nico says, settling both palms against the table top and staring at the young man, “I want you to be a shadow underneath Josh until you’re ready, and then I want you to be a savior of your own.” 

Tyler stares at Nico for a moment before his eyes move back to Josh, searching the man’s face before he finally turns back and nods. “Okay, I’ll do it,” He breathes before he turns to speak to Josh, “If you trust him, I do, too.” 

“Wonderful.” Nico says gruffly before he turns his attention back to Josh, pressing a manilla folder across the table and gesturing to Josh. “Your next mission, read up on her and you’ll head out in the morning. Your time limit for her will be two and a half years, she shouldn’t be as hard to save as Tyler was.” Nico states bluntly and Tyler feels his cheeks go crimson, head ducking a bit as Josh opens the folder and thumbs through the pages. 

“Jenna Black?” 

Tyler’s head snaps up, meeting Josh’s immediately as the color drains from his face. “Jenna Black?” He asks and Josh nods slowly, turning the folder to show Tyler a black and white picture of the girl. Her hair is blonde and in a braid, and she’s grinning from where she’s sat on top of a hay bale. “I knew her.” 

“Well,” Nico tuts, bringing Josh’s and Tyler’s attention back to him, “Hopefully this mission won’t be as difficult as the last. Do not let your personal intentions get in the way again this time, Joshua, and teach Tyler how to prevent it from happening as well.” Josh nods toward Nico, who only gives him a curt nod in return before he disappears into the darkness of the room. The vial flickers, and he’s gone. 

“Do you think you can do this?” Josh asks, tucking the folder underneath his arm and reaching out for Tyler who fits into his arms easily. “You don’t have to do this one if you don’t want to, I know you’re still adjusting to the whole... “ He waves his hand dismissively and Tyler shakes his head, tucking his head into the crook of Josh’s neck. 

“I can’t lose you for two years.” He murmurs quietly, “And--I really think I could help.” He whispers and Josh nods, pressing a kiss to the top of Tyler’s scalp. 

“Okay.” 

“Okay.” Tyler echoes, pulling away just enough to stare up at Josh, “Let’s do this.”