Maybe the hardest part of being an actor is figuring out how to learn a script you want to throw against the wall. Dylan's staring down at his sides like the lines'll change if he keeps reading them, but two hours later it's the same unflinching fucking—

Rape scene. Dylan has a rape scene.

Of course, Jeff isn't calling it that. Malia's feral on white wolfsbane, barely lucid, and Stiles finds her. Cups her jaw, tips his forehead to hers. There's a line: You scared the crap out of me. Barely breathed against her temple.

She's woozy, eyes half-lidded. She didn't have to be—She could've been awake, she could've been up to it, but no—That's not the direction Jeff wanted to go in. There'll probably be some slow trance song playing over it, like Stiles is a hero. Like this is all so romantic. And then he'll kiss her.

And keep kissing her. Then the scene fades out, goes to Scott, and comes back to them after, Malia in Stiles' arms, his fingers in her hair.

And maybe it could be okay if Stiles wakes up, if he's ever like, Oh my god, you were drugged, I'm a massive rotting turd, but Jeff wants Dylan hyping them. At interviews, conventions, name drop Malia! Talk about, what's the name again, Stalia. How freaking psyched he is to be playing this, this half of a feminist power couple, isn't it great?

And now all Dylan wants is to talk to Tyler the way they used to, go over the script the way they used to, play it out. Which is impossible, and dumber than dumb, and some drunk and bitter version of himself deleted Hoechlin's number from his phone, so—whatever. Stare at the lines, learn the lines, say the fucking lines. Stop pretending to have a spine.

"You scared the crap out of me," Dylan mutters, and thinks of doing every take achingly slow, of never actually kissing her at all. "You… you scared the crap out of me. Y—you scared the crap…"

It's an epic waste of time. Dylan can prep for this scene for hours, but there's no knowing how it'll meld with what Shelley has in mind.

And Shelley… Shelley is great. Super sweet, super funny. It's just that doing these scenes makes Dylan's skin itch, which means he's a crabby asshole who she can't wait to get away from. So scheduling extra run-throughs is kinda impossible.

Dylan gives up, throws his script against the wall. It flutters back down incredibly anticlimactically.

There's a boom mic hovering just out of frame, and Dylan is seriously considering leaping up and concussing himself rather than attempting one more second of this.

"Here's a thought," he offers, shoving a hand through his hair. "Maybe just skip the date rape altogether. Try one take with consent. Whadaya say."

"It's a sweet moment," Jeff says, and some insane, self-harming part of Dylan says,

"No, a sweet moment was that scene Hoechlin pitched before he realized no one here gives a crap."

He's a little stunned at himself, but adrenaline carries him even further.

"What are we actually doing here, huh? Right, it's a fun show, it's not hurting anybody. Until it's actually wrapping up rape like romance—I mean, does no one else here have a problem with that?"

"Everybody take ten," Jeff says.

The crew scatters. Shelley tactfully steps sideways, don't-mind-me style.

"Dylan," Jeff says. "I've never seen you so out of it. What's going on?"

"She's stoned on white wolfsbane," Dylan says, skipping I'm fine for maybe the first time in his life. "She's totally out of it. Stiles can't just—"

"This isn't about Stiles," Jeff says. "You've been moody for months. You wanna tell me why?"

"They had sex in a mental hospital," Dylan says, heat crawling up his neck. "Stiles was possessed, and Malia was mentally—what, nine years old?"

"Malia's sixteen," Jeff says authoritatively. "She loves Stiles very much. They're soul mates. She's wanted him in every scene. I promise."

"Yeah, well Stiles—"

"Stiles is thrilled to have such a hot girlfriend," Jeff says. "He loves Malia very much. I'm sorry Tyler dumped you, Dylan, but I need—"

"What did you say?" Dylan's face heats, his throat closing up.

"I'm sorry you're having a hard time," Jeff says, "but Stiles is not you. He loves his girlfriend, Malia Tate. And that's the scene I need from you."

"That's not what—" Dylan says, but everyone's coming back to set.

Apparently no one clued the fans in on the fact that Dylan and Tyler haven't worked together in months; they're still being requested as a duo by conventions. Side by side panel, talking about—what-ifs, and Sterek, and who makes Tyler laugh the most on set, and what character Dylan would play if he wasn't—It's a Halloween costume, where Tyler acts like Dylan ever impressed him, and Dylan pretends to be a normal person who can handle being jerked around like that.

Dylan is inhumanely anxious until he sees him, sees Ty all warm-eyed, soft smile growing just looking right at him, and all Dylan wants is to—touch him again, breathe him in.

But he can't, he remembers dully, five seconds too late. Puts his arm between them like a barrier, and Tyler's hands still on his shoulders, drop like dead things. Tyler nods stiffly, steps back.

Dylan's throat goes sour, chest tight, but it's fine. It's fine.

It has to be.

They take up the mics, and it's so good to talk to Ty again, Dylan's sick with regret for letting things go so long. They were friends before—they're friends. It's so fucking stupid to lose that.

Dylan curls his hand around the mic, knuckles bleached bloodless. Tyler's fingers graze his, and Dylan is teaching a masterclass in cool right now, because he should be swallowing his own tongue.

He's done, Dylan reminds himself. This is just—muscle memory. He's sleeping with, like, actresses and supermodels now. You're just some punk kid he sees as a—a little brother, or something.

It's just too easy to see Ty's eyes crinkle, his shoulders shake with laughter, feel these little touches, and think it means something. Dylan has to remember this is just how Hoechlin is with everybody. He does every convention he's invited to. His eyes do that no matter who he's looking at.

Maybe we shouldn't—uh, Tyler said when Dylan tried to touch him, and no shit. He was probably already fucking gymnasts by then, didn't want to lead Dylan on.

Something catches in Dylan's chest, drags him down into darkness.

Tyler's hands find his shoulder, his arm, tapping and pulling back, tapping again. Dylan stares at him, tries to figure him out.

Maybe all Hoechlin wants is to be friends again. To start hanging out again, talking again.

And that's—Dylan wants that too. So calm down, calm the fuck down.

But there's some sharp acid swilling in Dylan's gut, making it weirdly painful to breathe. And Dylan can't look at Hoechlin's face, he can't—

He fucking loved this guy, you know? Whatever it was for Hoechlin, some dumb funny fling, it wasn't—Dylan's not like that. He doesn't just go around fucking people like that. Fucking with people's heads like that. He can't even—He still can't—There hasn't been anyone else. Not in eight months, not… And it still feels crazy. Talking to someone else like that, trying to feel like that again, when he still doesn't know what happened. There's, like… He's powerless. With this pressure on his ribs, this tension, this stupid out of control fucking mourning for this thing that was obviously like ninety percent in his head in the first place.

He bites his lip, scratches at his eye, he's not—He can't do this. There's all these people, and—

"Dylan," Tyler's saying, fingers curving over his shoulder, his neck. Dylan feels like throwing up. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," Dylan says listlessly, eyes itching. "Don't even—don't, don't let it concern you."

"What?" Tyler says, sounding stunned. "I don't—What?"

And Dylan's trembling, he's so sick of this. Throat burning, eyes prickling.

"'s cool," he says, but his voice sounds—wrong. "I don't need—I mean, it doesn't matter. I'm not a fucking—gorgeous blonde actress, right, there's really—I mean, like, don't waste your time."

"Dylan," Hoechlin says, and Dylan can hear the frown in his voice without even looking at him. "Let's, let's not do this here."

"Or at all," Dylan offers. "Whatever. Let's just spend another nine months wondering what the fuck—" His voice catches, and his eyes light with tears, and it takes a few seconds before he can say, voice tight, "Yeah, let's not."

Somehow the panel goes on; somehow Dylan keeps breathing. He doesn't look up, try to gauge the look on Tyler's face. He doubts he could stand it. He focuses on the crowd, powers through.

After the panel, Hoechlin's fingers find his side, palm spreading over his shirt, but Dylan's already ice cold, past reactions. Tyler leans in close, says, "I think we should talk. Privately."

"Nah, I think we're done talking," Dylan says. "Why don't you go talk to some supermodel. If you can stand limiting yourself to just one."

"You keep saying that," Tyler says. "Why do you—I don't know any models."

"Maybe you should get to know them," Dylan suggests. This is dangerous territory, but he's too prickly to care. "You know, before you sleep with them."

Tyler rocks back, stunned. "Is that—You think I'm seeing somebody?"

"Just one?" Dylan asks. "No, nope. I think you found the buffet. The full smorgasbord."

"I'm," Tyler says, still sounding bewildered. "I haven't—There was one date. Ian thought it would be—" He shakes his head. "I was miserable."

"Yeah, that's not what Ian says," Dylan says tightly.

"God." Tyler lets out a sharp gust of breath. "What'd he say to you? I told him I didn't—" He shakes his head, lips pursing. "There hasn't been anybody."

"Then what," Dylan says. "I'm just too much of a spaz to, to bother—" His voice is humiliatingly brittle.

"You're the one who can't stand me touching you in public," Tyler says. "You're the one who said it was all just a funny joke. Fanservice."

"No," Dylan says, suddenly foggy-headed. "No, that wasn't—I had to say that crap. Posey doesn't get it, okay? And I didn't want things to be weird—"

"Well," Tyler says, and swallows hard, head dropping suddenly, glaring at the floor.

"What," Dylan says. "That's it, that's why—You could've told me."

"I tried to," Tyler says defensively. "You just agreed. So."

"I didn't think it mattered what I wanted," Dylan says. "You made up your mind."

"No!" Tyler says, frustrated. "I didn't! I didn't want to—I just—I took you home to my mom, Dylan. I thought it was—It wasn't a joke to me."

"That's not what it was," Dylan says. "It's just—some people don't get it—"

"So explain it," Tyler says. "Or don't. Don't—Just don't," he says, pleading. "It was never a joke to me."

"So I screwed up," Dylan says, clipped. "My bad." Except it is, and now Dylan feels like a shithole, on top of being a self-sabotaging moron. It's just that he can't work the tension out of his voice.

But Tyler only sighs. Says, quiet, "I hate fighting with you."

He slings his arm around Dylan's shoulders. Dylan curls sideways on instinct, rubs his cheek into the hollow of Tyler's throat.

"We're okay?" Dylan asks, scared as hell of the answer.

"More than," Tyler says, all kinds of warm.