joshler oneshots

aokigahara, also known as the suicide forest

summary:

there aren't any more footprints, they're in a forest haunted with death, and he has a halo around his head.

or:
in which the suicide forest appeals to the darkest parts of tyler and he can't quite decide the color of josh's hair.

words: 747

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the snow crunches satisfyingly under tyler's feet. his breath steams in the frigid air, and he watches with rapt fascination as it curls and disappears into the darkening sky.

there is little sound besides his footsteps and the quiet inhale and exhale of his breath. the birds open their mouths but the sounds that come out are distant, like a song played on bad quality speakers.

tyler fidgets with the rope in his right pocket.

his ears ring.

he imagines all these sounds together, merges them into one soundtrack, one song and then puts it on the canvas.

he sees dark green, and black that towers over everything. he can't see it, but there's an unmistakable note of painful red and faded, artificial purples that hovers as a menacing reminder.

the footprints on the path lessen as he walks further. some veer off into the forest. when they do, some of them have ribbon tied onto the trunks of the trees, brightly colored invaders among the brown grey wood. some tracks disappear, with only crushed leaves to prove their existence beyond the path.

tyler keeps walking until there aren't any footprints besides his own.

tyler should turn back soon. he thinks that as the sun disappears, he can hear whispers in the back of his head.

tyler keeps walking.

he sees a glow between the dense leaves of the trees. the sun maybe, glowing in its last moments before the moon will take reign.

tyler frowns. no, the sun is behind him.

he feels shivers go through his body that have nothing to do with cold.

maybe he's hallucinating. he stares at the ground around him. there aren't any tracks.

the glow gets brighter, and he hears the soft crunch of what is undeniably someone walking through snow.

his legs stop moving and he simply stands there, his body frozen still except for his speeding breathes.

a man emerges from the trees, and suddenly, there is light.

a glowing halo circles his head, and his eyes are brighter than the christmas lights tyler used to adore.

his feet touch the ground, but they leave nothing behind.

the light of his halo makes his hair bright yellow.

a multicolored tattoo creeps up his arm.

his voice is soft when he says,
"you don't belong here."

for some reason, his presence seems like a fact to tyler. it isn't strange, how he doesn't have pupils or why he doesn't leave footprints or why he's here, with the sky dark and his arms bare and without pills or rope to guide his purpose. he forebodes no questions.

tyler just laughs, and it's as cold as the snow beneath his feet and as empty as his eyes.

"i do. i have the certificate to prove it, even."

he lets the coils of rope fall with a smack to the ground.

his voice is more insistent now as he twists his head and the light of his halo glints purple off his hair.

"you don't belong here. this isn't your home. don't let this become your home."

tyler just shrugs helplessly.

then he's striding towards him, and his hair looks soft pink in reflection to cheeks.

his hands are warm and they leave pink fingerprints on tyler skin.

"don't listen."

his fingers skim over the black studs in tyler's ears.

"don't look."

his hair is light blue in the moonlight as he shuts tyler's eyelids gently.

"don't speak."

warm lips press against his own, and his hands are soft against tyler's face.

tyler touches his hair, and it feels like faded rose red.

then tyler fades, and he can't decide whether it's to sleep or away.

the suicide patrol is the next day.

they find tyler, nearly frozen to death with his fingers flushing blue.

he's wearing a crudely constructed halo of tree branches and twisted rope dusted with snow.
with a smile, he looks up at the patrol with blind eyes.

there aren't any sounds to hear, there aren't any songs to paint.

he puts a finger up to his lips, the skin flushed blue and his legs paralyzed.

then he falls back into the snow, his last breath too cold to steam in the air.

some who come back from the forest like to tell tales.

they tell tales of the boys who left no tracks where their feet touched the ground, who's eyes were brighter than christmas lights, and who's hair they could never quite decide the color of.