"You're really back with him?" Carrie says. Tyler swallows a small sigh.

She's got him sprawled on her couch, his guard down, thinking about nothing more than how much of a workout it'll take to combat the meal he just had, but of course she was planning this since she called, said, "I feel like I never see you," and his gut twisted in a knot.

Her Google alert must've lit up with those JustJared pictures of him and Dylan in the airport: Dylan's pillow tucked under Tyler's arm while Dylan signs the edge of someone's in-flight magazine. Dylan leaning close to take it, and this one shot that looks like they're about to kiss.

But they weren't. They don't do that kind of thing in front of cameras, or fans. Or anyone. Dylan's not ready to be that guy.

"I never wanted to break up with him," Tyler reasons. Just the thought of it makes his stomach clench a little bit. "The whole thing was a misunderstanding."

"Like how you're his dirty little secret?" Carrie says. Tyler rubs his eyes and wonders what it feels like to have a sister who doesn't think she's your therapist. "You deserve better than that."

"I don't deserve anything," Tyler says, scratching at his beard. "He's not ready."

"You're ready," Carrie says, like that's all that matters. "You've got more to lose than he does. He already established himself as an actor."

Tyler raises his eyebrows, tries not to let that sting.

"He carried a major action franchise," Carrie says, not even a little defensive. "That's the lie, isn't it? Gay guys can't play heroes? Well he already made millions at it. He's got nothing to prove anymore."

"That's not why," Tyler says. He sits up straight, tries to snap into interview mode. He can do this. "And it doesn't—I don't care."

"You told me you were gonna talk to him about it," Carrie says. "You sat on this couch and drank my wine and told me you were gonna stand up for yourself."

"I was under the influence," Tyler says. Carrie rolls her eyes. "Your influence," Tyler says, only a little crabbily. "And then I had the most miserable year of my life."

"So what, you're back to being a doormat?" Carrie challenges.

"I'm happy," Tyler says. Shouldn't that be enough? Dylan's enough, what they have is enough. More than enough. You ask for too much, you lose what you have. Who needs that?

"You're lying to yourself," Carrie says. "You're letting him turn you into a liar because you're scared of what he'll do if you don't follow his rules. That's not a healthy relationship."

"You dated a heroin addict," Tyler feels the need to point out. He really feels like he got her there, nods just a little to himself, until she says,

"Recovering heroin addict."

"Yeah, now," Tyler says, trying to gain back a little leverage in this conversation. "Because he's 'following your rules.'"

"Yeah, and unlike him? You don't need fixing," Carrie says. "You're perfect the way you are. Open. Honest. Real."

"Really," Tyler says flatly. He's done, he's just done trying to explain himself to her. "You're accusing me of being fake—"

"Right now," Carrie says. "What would you say, right now, if you were asked about him in one of your million interviews."

"That he's always there," Tyler says, then, ears heating, "What do you want me to say, Car. It's nobody else's business what I—"

"Yeah, that's not your line," Carrie says. "That's never been your line. That's his."

"I don't need you to like him," Tyler says. Just for this, Tyler is going to steal all of her wine. Put a ransom note on Instagram.

"Oh, I like him," Carrie says. "He's smart and funny and cute as a button. But he has no right to barricade you back in the closet with him. You really wanna be thirty and still living a lie?"

Tyler has no plans to freak out about turning twenty-nine. He's got a good life. A job he loves, friends on every continent, money to travel; he's healthy, in good shape; his family supports him. He's dating the guy he's in love with, the guy who, despite almost a year of thinking otherwise, loves him too. He's got nothing to complain about.

He's writing a movie with Dylan O'Brien. Who else gets to say that?

Not that he's gotten a lot done in that direction. He has some ideas, a couple of thoughts in his Notes app, a handful of texts to Dylan, nothing serious. He's not tied down to any theme yet; he just wants it to be something he can be proud of. And it will be, with Dylan attached, but he doesn't—that shouldn't be why. He needs to bring something to it, something only he could've brought to it.

He's just drawing a blank on what exactly that looks like.

Two weeks back from their trip, Dylan makes the last round of auditions for the lead guy in Terminal, based on the best-selling novel about just-separated high school sweethearts who find out their son only has a few months left to live. It's expected to make blockbuster returns on an indie budget; Felicity Jones is already signed on as the mother, Jacob Tremblay as the son. Dylan's never been more nervous.

"This is it," he says. Tyler can hear him pacing, never a good sign. "This is the one. This guy, he's a thousand things at once, and it all fits together."

"It sounds incredible," Tyler says. It does. He read the book when Dyl went out for the first audition, cried so hard he used it to get there shooting the darkest scene in Harvest. Which is—yeah, it's a horror movie. But that doesn't mean you shouldn't give it your best.

"Can I—" Dylan stops pacing. "It's stupid, I just thought—"

"What," Tyler says. It's never stupid. Dylan's the first one to dismiss his ideas, or play them down. Tyler honestly doesn't get how he can doubt himself like that. Doesn't get why he'd ever need Tyler reassuring him about what feels like the most obvious thing in the world.

"I mean, you'd have to play the mom," Dylan says, half-laughing, and Tyler says, "You want me to read with you?"

"If you—I mean, if it's not—" Dylan stops. "You mind?"

"Are you kidding," Tyler says. Does he mind. It's like Dylan doesn't know him at all.

"I don't have the full script," Dylan says, apologetic, like Tyler's gonna take back his offer. "I just—I really want this one."

Two hours later, Tyler's on a plane.

They're changing the title of Tyler's baseball movie again, pushing it back again. That's always a red flag, a sign the studio isn't really behind it like they used to be.

"They pushed back Maze Runner," Dylan points out, but that wasn't—that's different. That needed to be perfect, needed special effects, and—Tyler's movie isn't anything like that.

All that really means is Ty's got some more free time than he anticipated. Can't complain about that. Dylan's seriously on edge prepping for Terminal, but it's good to be near him. It's really good to read with him; feels like they used to, but—more.

"You're a lifesaver," Dylan says, after, touches his arm and draws him in, and Tyler doesn't know what he did in a past life to be this lucky.

Tyler comes this close to flubbing the name of his own movie at the, yeah, the premiere of his own movie. It's fine; there's no major media coverage, he's not sure anyone noticed. He comes back strong, talking about what this movie means to him, about being part of a team, and how weird it is when you suddenly—aren't. Pulls back, doesn't get too personal, just enough to satisfy the woman interviewing him. There's—he doesn't think about it a lot, tries not to think about it a lot. He made a good choice, has no complaints how things turned out, but there's still something there, sometimes—some nostalgia, maybe, some... something almost sad, without ever really getting there. Acting was always the more solid option, the one he knew he could do for a long time. And he's not gonna lose it all on an injury, or a couple of bad games, and...

And he doesn't have to hide anything. Which—It was never the main reason on the list, but it was on the list. Maybe the world's finally ready for a guy like him in baseball, but he's never been one to make waves. There are other people, smarter people, who know the history and the language like Dylan knows Mets stats. Tyler's not—he doesn't like debating politics, or religion; his motto is live and let live. Colton's got all kinds of strong opinions, and Tyler respects that, he does. It's just not who he his.

He was never gonna be the first guy out, but he wasn't looking forward to hiding, either. Carrie knows that, she knows—she was the first one who knew anything about it. She's always been protective of him, but after that—Tyler drunk and more lost than he usually lets himself be, frozen deciding—it's like she became his personal gay activist. And he's lucky to have had that, that support; there are plenty of people who don't. He's not oblivious to that. It's just—a little much, sometimes.

"Maybe I'd become a baseball player," Dylan joked in some interview—what would you do if you weren't acting. "I don't know. I'd be a director, like my dad." And maybe it's something like that, not wanting to amputate your options. Not feel like you're suddenly backed into a corner in peoples' perceptions. This guy in Terminal, Dylan's desperate to play him because he's a thousand things at once. He just doesn't wanna get put in his own special category.

Tyler, he can understand that. He doesn't wanna hijack that. He doesn't—it kills him to see Dylan miserable, sick with anxiety. That's the last thing he wants to do.

You can't always get what you want, and that's fine. Tyler already has all he could ask for.

Tyler's just back from the gym when Dylan calls. FaceTime, he gets to see Dylan's face; he accepts before he even realizes he's doing it.

Dylan lets out a gust of relief, closes his eyes. Then he opens them wide again, croaks, "I'm freaking out."

"You're gonna be amazing," Tyler says, and doesn't even feel stupid about it. He used to, used to think—are you serious? You have to know that already. You can't honestly see and hear everything I'm seeing and hearing and still think you're doing a terrible job. This, this is manipulative.

But it isn't. Dylan really doesn't let it sink in, the compliments, the constant praise he's showered with, he thinks it's a joke. Or completely out of touch, or empty flattery.

"Yeah, no," Dylan says. There are tears in his eyes; Tyler's gut clenches. "So I uh, I just ran out of the audition room? Because I'm like—I'm just sucking today. No," he says, before Tyler can open his mouth. "You didn't see their faces. Like, 'who is this guy again? How the fuck did he even make it into consideration?'"

"I can guarantee that's not what they were thinking," Tyler says, and Dylan lets out a stomach-twisting sound and says, "Fuck, you're so nice."

"I'm not being nice," Tyler says, annoyed. "I read with you. You were amazing."

"Yeah, then," Dylan says. "With you."

"So it's just—nerves," Tyler tries. "Why don't you just go back in, try—"

"No, I can't," Dylan says. "I'm—Oh my god, I wanna kill myself."

"Dylan," Tyler says, carefully not alarmed. He's not—he says things like that, it just means—he's freaking out, getting mad at himself. "I'm—I'm in town, I'll come pick you up."

"Yeah," Dylan says, eyes widening with relief. "Yeah, yeah yeah yeah. Come."

Clearly Tyler is on a mission from God: there's only the thinnest layer of traffic. What should be an hour's drive on any normal day takes less than fifteen minutes. He finds easy parking, too; life is full of miracles. He calls Dylan back on his way to the door, finds him hunched on the back stairs, just breathing, eases a hand on his shoulder.

"Shit," Dylan says, near-jumping out of his skin, but his whole body sags when he sees Tyler. "Shit, shit, fucking shit. What am I—Why did I think I could do this?"

"Don't," Tyler says, sitting by him. "This is crazy. You're incredible. You're the only one who doesn't get that."

"I'm a fucking headcase," Dylan says.

"You're..." Tyler says, and can't resist. "You're insecure," he says, fighting not to smirk. "Don't know what for."

"Oh my god, really?" Dylan says, punching him lightly on the shoulder. "I hate you."

"Weird way of showing it," Tyler says, and leans into the contact.

(~baby you light up my world like nobody else~)