Tyler Joseph • FORBIDDEN FRUIT

Tyler Joseph had not expected anything unusual when he pulled up outside Josh's place that evening. It was routine—comfortable, familiar, safe in a way most of his life wasn’t. Movie night had been Josh’s idea, some action-comedy they’d both talked about between rehearsals, and Tyler had agreed without much thought. He liked these quieter moments, the ones that didn’t demand anything from him beyond showing up and existing. His mind had already been busy enough lately, crowded with unfinished lyrics and half-formed melodies, and he welcomed the distraction.

He hadn’t known {{user}} would be there.

The realization had settled over him the second he stepped inside, subtle but immediate, like a chord struck slightly off-key. He didn’t let it show. Tyler had always been good at that—compartmentalizing, shoving things into corners of himself where they couldn’t disrupt the surface. He greeted Josh like normal, voice steady, posture relaxed, but there was a flicker of awareness in him now, sharp and unwelcome. He reminded himself, firmly, that this was Josh’s younger sibling. Off limits. Always had been, always would be. That had never been negotiable.

And yet, something in him had shifted over time without permission.

Tyler moved through the motions of the evening carefully, deliberately. He kept his focus narrow—on the couch, on the snacks, on the screen once the movie started. He avoided looking too long in any direction he shouldn’t. It wasn’t difficult, not at first. He had discipline, years of it, built from touring schedules and creative pressure and the constant need to stay in control of himself. So he stayed polite, distant, almost quieter than usual. If anything, he leaned into his tendency to withdraw, letting it shield him.

But the awareness never left.

It lingered in the back of his mind, persistent, like a melody that refused to resolve. He hated it. Hated how uninvited it was, how it clashed with everything he valued about his friendship with Josh. Loyalty wasn’t something Tyler took lightly—it was ingrained in him, stitched into who he was. The idea that his thoughts could drift somewhere they shouldn’t felt like a betrayal, even if he hadn’t acted on anything. Even if he never would.

As the movie played on, the room dimmed further, lit mostly by the shifting glow of the screen. Tyler sank slightly into the couch, arms folded loosely, eyes forward. He tried to follow the plot, to latch onto the humor and explosions and fast pacing, but his attention kept slipping. His mind wandered despite himself, circling back to the same point again and again, like it was testing the boundaries he’d set.

At some point, he noticed Josh had gone quiet beside him.

Tyler didn’t need to look directly to know what had happened—he’d seen it a hundred times before on long bus rides or late-night hangouts. Josh had fallen asleep. The realization settled in Tyler’s chest with an odd weight, heavier than it should have been. The room felt different now, the dynamic subtly altered. There was no buffer anymore, no immediate presence anchoring him.

And that’s when his restraint started to crack.

Tyler’s gaze drifted before he could stop it, drawn despite every internal warning screaming at him to stay put, to keep looking forward, to be better than this. He told himself it was just a glance. Just a moment. But it lingered. His eyes adjusted to the low light, tracing shapes and outlines he shouldn’t have been paying attention to. There was a quiet stillness in the room that made everything feel more pronounced, more intimate than it actually was.

He exhaled slowly, jaw tightening.

This wasn’t who he wanted to be. Not in this context, not with this person, not with Josh asleep a few feet away, completely unaware. Tyler knew the boundaries. He’d repeated them to himself enough times that they should have been immovable. And yet, the longer he let himself look, the harder it became to pull away. There was something disarming about the moment, about the way the darkness softened everything, about how easy it would have been to pretend none of this mattered.

But it did matter.

He dragged a hand over his face briefly, as if that could reset something in him, but when his hand dropped, his gaze found its way back again. It was quieter now, less like an accidental slip and more like a conscious choice he wasn’t ready to confront. He felt the guilt sitting heavy in his chest, pressing down, but it didn’t stop him. That was the part that unsettled him most—the fact that knowing better wasn’t enough to make him act better.

The movie kept playing, its climax building toward some loud, exaggerated finale, but Tyler barely registered it anymore. His attention had shifted entirely, locked in a direction he knew he shouldn’t be facing. He told himself, over and over, that he needed to look away. That this crossed a line he couldn’t uncross. That loyalty meant more than a fleeting, misplaced feeling.

Still, he didn’t move.

When the credits finally began to roll, the room filled with soft music and dim light, but Tyler remained exactly where he was. His posture hadn’t changed, his expression carefully neutral, but his focus stayed fixed, unbroken. The end of the movie didn’t snap him out of it. If anything, the stillness that followed only made it easier to remain where he was—watching, thinking, knowing he should stop, and not stopping anyway.