They break up mid-September; it just makes sense. It's not like this was ever sustainable, like it was ever even a real option. It was stupid, Dylan was stupid thinking it could work.

They don't see each other for a while, they stop texting. It's fine. This is being an adult, Dyl, this is real life. Suck it up and move on.

Tyler certainly seems to have. The way Ian goes on about it, he's practically got a different girl every night. And whatever. Whatever. He can do what he wants, sleep with whoever he wants. It's none of Dylan's business.

It wasn't ever, like, a serious option. Not really. It was a joke, this funny joke, it was bound to blow up in their faces eventually, become weird and awkward and—

But that's the thing. that's the thing.

It didn't.

Season four is a little less intense than season three, but maybe that's just the difference between twelve and twenty-four plus a movie. There are a lot more scenes with Posey this time, there's a lot more comedy. Somehow Dylan manages to fuck up his knee doing six takes of a simple running scene, but it's fine. He doesn't destroy any props, he's not bleeding, he'll walk it off eventually. The last take was good, that's all that matters, he doesn't have to do it again.

He doesn't text Tyler to bitch about it, just scans the sides for the next scene and hobbles off to his trailer when he sees it's a chunk of Malia stuff. There's a scene with Holland he should probably run through with her at least once, some great stuff with Posey tomorrow.

There's nothing with Tyler. There's never anything with Tyler. He's shooting with JR, with Ian, with Jill; as far as Dylan goes, they might as well be on different shows.

It's—fine. It's whatever. This is the job, it's a job. It's not supposed to be, like, some kind of wish-granting, choose your own adventure shit. You're not getting paid crazy amounts of money to screw around with your was-this-ever-even-really-a-thing ex, even if that's what like the loudest, most dedicated section of fans want to see.

But dedicated doesn't mean ratings, apparently, or—whatever, it's whatever. Someone else is writing the show, Dylan's just doing his bit and trying not to suck at it or mortally wound himself. He can't control what he can't control. And he can't control Tyler, make him talk, so—so fine. All Dylan can do is his job, so he does his job.

He can see girls too, sleep around, do whatever.

Mostly he stays in his trailer until someone drags him out.

Mom wants to talk. Dylan has no idea what to say to her, about any of it. It just kind of disappeared, like an optical illusion. Blink and suddenly the picture is so obviously warped you must have been blind not to see it.

"He seemed to really like you," Mom says.

"Guess he's a better actor than you thought," Dylan says. Mom's face pinches, and Dylan backtracks. "I just—Can we just—not talk about this? How are you? How's Dad?"

Mom's fine. Dad's fine. Everything's just awesome.

By the time he and Tyler actually have a scene, Dylan's so used to the grind he barely notices it. And then he's on set, and there he is, stupidly attractive just talking to Sprayberry, and Dylan can do this. He can be a normal human being for a couple of hours, or do an approximate imitation of one.

"Dylan," Tyler says, his voice all warm and grinning and exactly like nothing has changed.

"Yo," Dylan says, raising a couple of fingers in a vague wave before shoving them through his hair. "And lil' Dyl. Hey, buddy!"

"Hey!" Sprayberry says. His eyes still have that bright, shiny, this is the most fun I've ever had sheen. It's kind of nauseating, in a sweet way. "Um, I was just saying, if I like, injure Tyler for real—"

"They didn't tell you? The healing's not an effect," Dylan says. "Regular Hoech superpower." He slaps Tyler on the back, grins. "So go nuts."

"Yeah," Sprayberry says, looking between them like he's watching something Dylan can't see. Dylan drops his hand from Tyler's side, slides closer to Sprayberry. This time even he catches the way Tyler frowns for a second before his mouth hitches into a smile again.

"So the scene," Dylan says.

"The scene," Tyler says agreeably. "Seems pretty straightforward."

"Yep," Dylan says.

"How've you been?" Tyler asks, instead of a question Dylan can actually answer, like the meaning of life, or what came before the Big Bang.

"Great," Dylan lies. "So great. I can actually sleep most days now, so, you know, that's a plus."

Tyler's brow creases. "You weren't sleeping?"

"That's the job," Dylan says. "Or something. I got so swamped with work I'm amazed my bed hasn't left me for someone else."

It comes out weird and pointed, like some kind of accusation, which—Dylan did not want to do that at all. He laughs awkwardly, laughs harder. "Yeah, I don't even know. I think I like, permanently scrambled my brain with all the physical stuff for the movie."

The movie. Like it's so big Dylan doesn't even have to name it. Must be my movie, because it sure as hell isn't your movie. He sounds like a jackass.

"I bet it'll look awesome, though," Tyler says.

"Hope so," Dylan says. "It's getting pushed forward like a year so they can edit in my eightpack, so it better be worth it."

"That's not natural?" Tyler asks, raising an eyebrow. "I've been betrayed by the internet."

"Photoshop," Dylan agrees. "Just last week it had my mom convinced my eyes were gold."

"They are kind of golden," Tyler says, and—and now he's looking right into Dylan's eyes. Chances of survival are just freefalling to hell.

"Nope," Dylan says, shaking his head. "Just brown."

"Agree to disagree," Tyler says amicably.

"Shit brown," Dylan says.

"Beer bottle," Tyler says.

Dylan laughs. "Is that better?"

"Like, a brown one," Tyler says, ears pinking. "Obviously."

"So—brown," Dylan says, spreading his hands wide. "So, I win."

"But the light bouncing off the glass makes it kind of—" Tyler shakes his head. "Forget it."

"I think they look kind of hazel," Sprayberry offers.

"Neat-o," Dylan says.

Tyler never actually technically ended it. He just pulled away, and away, and away, until they were just texting about work, about the weather or something. It tapered off too easily, and then Dylan started scrolling through their texts and realized Tyler hadn't actually written a single thing that couldn't have been written by Posey or Holland in months. And when he finally had some free time, finally had a chance to see Tyler in person, they ate a bunch of pizza and played Mariocart like it was open-heart surgery, and when Dylan dumped the controller in his lap and kissed him, Tyler pulled away and said, "I, uh, maybe we shouldn't—"

And Dylan said, "No, yeah, sure."

So they're not.

And it's fine.

It's completely fucking fine.