Work Text:
Tyler is okay.
Tyler is okay because he goes to therapy, because he takes his medication, because he stays in his bunk even on the nights he can't sleep, because he deals.
He survives.
He keeps going.
Tyler is okay. Most of the time.
He is okay except when he's alone, when he's locked in a tour bus bathroom and bleeding at the hips and thighs and he stares at his wrists for a long, long while.
It's not so bad. He can handle it. He can turn it into something better, into lyrics that kids will sing back to him at shows (he doesn't think about the way he hates hearing his own voice and oh god, oh god it's so much worse when it's his words from someone else's).
Tyler is okay. Usually.
Sometimes he looks at all his pill bottles in their neat rows and thinks about prescriptions that don't help, thinks about how much better they'd work if he were to take them all already.
He doesn't talk about it. He makes it all past tense, makes it I used to, when I was younger - this way, nobody has to think twice about it.
Tyler is safe now.
Tyler is okay. Sometimes.
He knows that people care. He knows that Josh and Jenna and his brothers and his sister, they'd be devastated, he knows this, and he hates himself because it's not enough.
It's not enough, it's not enough, someday they'll be gone too and it won't matter when he left them, it won't matter how.
Tyler is okay.
He thinks about opening his wrists up with razors and drinking himself to death and drowning in the creek that's blocks from the house he grew up in and high-rise buildings and the medicine cabinet.
He thinks about how everything is there, how he could do it.
But he doesn't, and that means he's okay.