PREVIEW.irl |-/ [Twenty Øne Pilots FanFiction]

Prologue- Who's happy to be alive tonight?

Song:: Forest- Twenty One Pilots- Who's happy to be alive tonight?

I, being what I am, would like to point out that humans are alone in their own minds. Over the time I have had to observe this, I have come to realise they don't always take well to the thought. Possibly, it makes them feel lonely and constricted. But, whatever it is that sparks the uncomfort, it intrigued me once that it was one so young that came to this conclusion.

Joshua had pushed himself through the smokey, two bedroom building, that he'd called home for nearly 13 years. Chucked his rucksack across the bed, heaved for breath, sent anxious looks towards the window. Over the course of time he had stayed here, it had never felt less home-like to him than now.

Now he was alone. Almost. But, in all honestly, he knew it would be worse if he hadn't been. He continued to hide spray cans as the sirens screamed past. He breathed a sigh of relief. They had never caught the two boys, but this time was the closest. Josh blamed Tyler. He started it. The tradition. What sort of silly tradition was illegal? Theirs, apparently.

Not even 13 and being chased by sirens. "It'll be fine, J" Tyler would say to Josh had dreaded what they were going to turn out like. Tyler especially. He didn't see the problem, he didn't see a need to change or grow up. Not that that was his fault; his dad was a criminal as well, just not a good one- he was serving a life sentence over in England.

Years on, Joshua would recall when they were about 7, and Tyler had sworn he would never turn out like him, never.

It was all very silly. Tyler needed money, Josh thought- 'fair enough'. But they didn't even get any money for what they were doing. Painting a cop's house with a picture of Guns, Josh's cat, and their signatures. It was stupid and immature. Josh had felt he ought to talk to Tyler about it. A grown-up conversation, addressing their stupidity.

But days later, and what Poor Little Josh would have given to have any kind of conversation with Tyler. Another painting, of anything, it didn't matter. He had just wanted Tyler back. Josh knew he went over the line and he would apologise and take it all back and give him a hug if he could. But Tyler was gone. Josh didn't know where. But Josh also didn't know why.

He thought he knew, he believed he knew.

Josh haunted himself every night. Ruined himself with every action, believing it was his fault his best friend was dead.

We knew why, but not Poor Little Josh.

Nobody else was there to care about Tyler, so at the bottom of the Dun's garden, behind a large oak and under a heap of mud, there was a small cross with the inscription: "To Tyler Joseph, Thank you for your time with us." No formal words, as the just about 13-year-old didn't really know what was usually put there. But, he sat and cried, in all black, with a white tissue and waited for the nightfall.

Nightfall. Nothing special. Not the first and last. The sun would cast its shadows on the tiny cross the day after and no-one would know any different. But nightfall called for Monsters and there, lying on some twigs and leaves, for the first time, Josh welcomed us.

Mrs Dun always did prefer Tyler to her own son, and from time to time, when she slipped off her medication, her schizophrenia made this quite clear. However, she made no reference to his sudden disappearance when it happened. Only a small smile, which Josh had to force himself not to be angry with. Control. He would whisper to himself. Control.

It wasn't until Josh was 17, in 11th grade, that he took up graffiti again. Earrings, a few small tattoos and several different hair colours had passed outwardly. Many a cigarette had passed his lips, many streams of blood had fallen from his body; but he realised (or thought) that he was craving the thrill and hiss, once again, of his spray cans. And with the painting came the Monsters.

He felt like a desperate little kid, scrounging for a purpose. He was still moping around, 4 years on. You learn to live with it, they say. But, nobody had said this to Josh. Nobody listened when he scream at the Monsters in the early hours of the morning. Nobody listened during the day. Nobody listened, knew or cared, so he screamed for anyone. For us. He had been failing miserably before, but this was a different kind. Control.

He worked alone, knowing no-one could be a better partner than Tyler. His first painting, after all those years, was a blue rose. Of no significance to anything. It meant nothing except what it was. The first painting he had done for four years, the first of a new era.

What meant something, was the Monsters. Our reappearance in Poor Not-so-little Josh's mind scared him at first, but he slowly grew attached and somewhat addicted to our presence. How tragic.

Monsters are for babies, Joshua.

Poor Little Josh.

¡Hola! (I'm not Spanish)

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