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"I think you're the best person I know."
They’re sitting on the lip of the sidewalk, washed in the glow of the vending machine. Josh licks some sauce off his pinkie and keeps eating his burrito as if he hasn’t shattered Tyler’s world.
“What?”
Josh shrugs. "I don't know, just something I've been thinking."
Tyler puts his own burrito down, the crinkling of the foil mixing with the low hum from the lights illuminating the gas pumps.
"How do you figure that?" He wants to disagree, wants to spill his list of wrongs out in the open where Josh can judge them, but he also desperately wants to get back into the van and keep driving. This is his fault, he's the one who wanted to stretch his legs before they kept driving.
Josh finishes his meal before answering, the quiet surety that Tyler knows he will respond in time and will give him the space he needs twisting something inside of Tyler's chest.
"I know you put on the lead singer thing, but I just hope you know that's not it. That's not real."
Josh always uses his words so carefully when he chooses to speak, picking each out with a care he never shows when he's choosing which Red Bull to get. Their drinks sit unopened beside them, waiting to be useful in the long dark waiting ahead of them.
"I'm real," he protests, already upset with himself for picking the combative approach.
Josh shoots him an unamused look, his hair still sticking up oddly in the front from when he changed shirts after the show. The flush has not left his cheeks yet, just like the sweat is still drying at the back of Tyler's neck.
"You're being difficult on purpose," Josh sighs, collecting his trash and standing with a grunt.
Tyler tries to ignore the list in his head that reminds him Josh's back has been bothering him, to ask him later how his muscles are settling after the show.
"Well as the lead singer and most important part of this band-"
"You're doing it again," Josh stops him, half amused where he stands by the trash cans.
A liquor advertisement lights up the left side of his face, throwing the other side into shadow. It bathes his hair in blue, throws his cheekbones into stark relief.
"Then tell me how I'm-" it sticks in Tyler's throat, even trying to say it jokingly. "How I'm… what you said."
Josh rolls his head back, stretching out his neck. He stays like that, arms loose, blocking the sidewalk of this midnight gas station, and Tyler somehow knows he's searching for stars. Josh told him, once, some other deep night confessional when they were driving between two nowhere towns, that he's so sure they can make it but he worries he'll miss the stars when they start playing real cities. That the possibility of playing stadiums is probably worth it but that he always liked sitting in his backyard and looking at the stars when he was little and he thinks he'll miss it.
It's such a Josh sentiment that it hurts: so sure of them, of Tyler, so proud of what they're making that their success feels written in the very stars Josh always checks for.
"Y'can see Orion's Belt," Tyler says without thinking, having moved his scrutiny from his drummer to the heavens. Josh always points out that one, to the point that Tyler hears his voice in his head when he sees it.
Josh lets out a breath through his nose, warm and indulgent. "Bet we could see more without all the lights."
It might be a redirect, and Tyler might be a coward for taking it. "Back to the van?"
Josh drops his head into a nod, collecting both of their Red Bulls. It's unspoken that he'll keep driving, always taking the shift after shows, content to bask in Tyler's exuberance and planning and critiques.
Tyler thinks that's one more thing he should add to the list, the one that disproves Josh's statement, because why should Josh have to drive when they're both nearly jittering out of their bones with excitement and the energy from the admittedly small venues they've been playing. The crowds are lively, they care deeply, and then it's just the two of them and the van and the stretch of highway to take them to the next place and Tyler thinks maybe sometimes he should let Josh stretch out in the passenger seat instead of gripping the wheel conscientiously and turning down the radio when Tyler launches into another point.
Josh keeps rubbing at his eyes as they make their way back to the van, and Tyler wonders how long this will keep working. He loves getting themselves to gigs but then there’s this part, the aching tiredness even as his brain spins faster and faster.
“I think I need to get my contacts out,” Josh confesses, sliding the door of the van open to find his bag and root around in it.
“I’ll go get the bathroom key.” Tyler speeds off before Josh can object, clutching the chance to be helpful.
The door chimes as he opens it, the man behind the counter not bothering to look up. The air conditioning is brutal, it almost feels like the refrigerated section labeled “beer cave” that he and Josh had tumbled into earlier in an effort to regulate their temperature after the show, evaporate some of the sweat.
“Is there a bathroom key?” Tyler asks, shuffling up to the counter.
The man stays engrossed in whatever crossword puzzle he’s working on, swinging his hand to collect the short piece of wood connected to the key and dropping it on the counter. “Bring it back,” he says with rote memorization boredom.
Josh is waiting for Tyler outside by the bathroom door, hands full of his contact case and solution and glasses.
“Let me,” Tyler offers, twisting the key In the rusting lock, pulling the door open.
It’s a single stall, sticky floor and tiny sink. They both enter, long since over any shyness around each other. Josh fumbles with the items in his hands, trying to set them on the nonexistent ledge of the sink.
“Here-“ Tyler reaches for all of it, carefully avoiding the lenses of Josh’s glasses.
“Thanks,” he breathes, moving to wash his hands.
Tyler holds out the contact case while Josh unscrews the lids, pours the solution in.
“I think you don’t see your good parts.” Josh doesn’t say it until he’s bent over the sink, focused on getting his left contact out.
Tyler keeps his eyes on Josh’s shoulders so he doesn’t have to watch, hums so he doesn’t have to answer. He doesn’t think Josh would like it if he asked “what good parts?”.
“Like this,” Josh smiles, dropping the contact into its case and screwing it closed.
“Just helping my bud,” Tyler protests, and Josh’s lips spread a bit, the smile he can’t help sometimes that Tyler delights in causing.
“You know what I mean,” Josh admonishes, leaning back in to remove the right side.
Tyler watches the contact case, the solution wiggling in the right side, Josh’s blunt fingers dropping the last contact in, closing it, slipping the case into his pocket. He takes his glasses from Tyler and slides them on, scrubbing a hand over his head to further mess up his hair.
“You wanna wash up?”
Tyler nods, hands over the contact solution for Josh to pocket. He doesn’t think he should use hand soap on his face, but the water is bracing and crisp and runs down to his elbows distractingly.
Josh is waiting with paper towels when he resurfaces, rubbing down Tyler’s arms, making him laugh. Josh hooks his finger in the rubber band at Tyler’s wrist for only a second, his expression flickering so quickly Tyler wonders if he made it up in the sickly bathroom lighting when Josh bumps his shoulders with a grin as they exit.
Tyler takes the key back to the cashier while Josh warms up the van, sliding back into the passenger seat while Josh buckles himself into the driver’s side.
“You’re so polite to my parents,” Josh says once they’re on the road, the hum of the deserted highway almost lulling Tyler into relaxation. The way he says it sounds like the start of a monologue, and Tyler cuts in before Josh can build up steam.
“Your parents are so nice, Josh, that’s not really anything-“
“And you’re so patient with fans, Tyler. I could never talk that long with them, I don’t know how you do it.”
“It’s probably vanity” the horrible voice in Tyler’s head tells him, the one that sounds like what he hears on playback when his voice is too thin too tired not good enough. He’s not doing anything special to stand there while each new group of people talks to him about his music, if anything it’s nice to know anyone besides him and Josh are putting any energy into listening to his lyrics.
“It’s just small talk,” Tyler deflects. “It’s okay that you don’t like it.”
“But you always know what to say,” Josh insists, and his fingers tap on the wheel before he closes his fist around it again, agitated. “You always know what to say to get them to be comfortable and open up.”
“But they like you more” feels childish to say, even if Tyler means it as a compliment. For all his words he can’t seem to get Josh to see how people gravitate to him like the sun.
“It’s just like, public speaking, I don’t know, it’s just a muscle-“
“You see me, Tyler.” Josh says plainly, simply. “And that hasn’t happened before.”
And isn’t that just the tragedy of everyone else’s lives, that they somehow met this sweet boy who is driving Tyler home and did not see him for the rare phenomenon that he is, a shooting star or supernova or some other cosmic event Tyler should really learn more about. He always feels a little smug, when Josh brings up his old band. Knowing that Josh feels safe here and wants to be here and that they want the same things.
“It’s easy,” Tyler finally whispers, trying to catch sight of the stars out the window. His forehead is pressed to the glass, the low rumble almost a massage.
Josh puffs out a disbelieving laugh like he’s won something, and Tyler lets them sit in silence. He knows Josh is working towards a point, just has to wait for him to be ready.
“You think about it, like being a good person, so much. More than anyone I’ve met. And I think that means something, you know? Just that you’re focused and you’re learning-“
“Doesn’t matter if I can’t make myself do anything about it,” Tyler mutters. He’s never what he wants to be, can’t berate himself into alignment.
“But the trying matters, right? Every new day?”
It sounds hopeful, when it’s shaped in Josh’s mouth. Sounds like a chance rising with the sun.
Josh’s hand crosses the space of the console between them, fingers twisting absently in the sleeve of Tyler’s shirt. It’s only then that Tyler realizes its one of Josh’s, their things so jumbled and shared until it’s hard to know where one ends and the other starts some days.
Tyler thinks he should feel more repentant about that, it shouldn’t thrill him.
“You know I love your songs, our songs,” Josh says, and Tyler understands the lifeline grip on his shirt, the solidity that Josh is lending even as his words send Tyler spiraling.
“Hey,” Josh tugs his sleeve, eyes still on the road. “I mean that, I do.”
Tyler settles back against the seat, shifts so he can watch Josh’s profile, curls pushed up off his forehead and bottom lip tucked into his mouth.
“Just.. the way you sing these songs. Sometimes . I think it scares me. So I wanted you to know.”
Tyler takes it in, lets the words and the spaces in between land. Ponders why it feels like care when Josh says it, but pressure when other concerned people ask if he thinks he still needs his rubber band. Josh is just so honest even Tyler’s guilt can’t twist his words into something damning.
“I’m sorry,” Tyler whispers, when it's been quiet too long.
“Don’t want you to be sorry,” Josh hushes, and his hand skates down Tyler’s arm to rest against the thundering pulse in his forearm. “Just thought I should say.”
It’s all too much, that this person believes in him and wants to be here, every every day. That he means what he’s saying, that he’s always texting asking if they can hang out, even when they’re not troubleshooting some aspect of a song. The unyielding daily proof that Josh really does believe that, that he believes Tyler is a good person, and maybe if Tyler keeps basking in the glow of that belief it’ll rub off on him someday and he’ll be able to hold it inside of him even when Josh isn’t in the next seat over, isn’t crammed next to him on the mattress that is bouncing in the back of the van right now, isn’t grinning at him from over his drum set like no one else is in the room to see.
“You know I hate to tell you you’re wrong,” Tyler starts, covering Josh’s hand so he knows it’s a joke. “But actually I’ve been running the numbers and you’re the best person I know."
Josh dips his head, eyes on the road, hand squeezing against Tyler’s arm a second.
“And what are the odds of that? The two best people in the world ending up in the same band?” It’s safe banter, the kind of stuff he uses to get Josh to smile when the days are long and no one has enough time for load in. “Just doesn’t seem very plausible to me.”
“And yet,” Josh challenges, flashing all his teeth at Tyler, that wide unabashed smile that always steals Tyler’s breath.
And Tyler thinks maybe it’s okay he hasn’t studied shooting stars, because what use would he have for wishes when he already has this?