"You were joking," Susan says. "Playing along. Trying to make the buzz around your video bigger."
"Um, no," Dylan says. "What?"
"It was clever," Susan says. "I monitor your Twitter, but I can't see your replies unless I'm looking for them. So that yes spread to Tumblr, and from there back to Twitter, where it trended. Hashtag #sterekbecausehobrien."
"That doesn't even sound like real words," Dylan points out. Susan sighs.
"This isn't just your career we're talking about. Tyler's manager agrees—"
"You talked to Hoech's manager?" Dylan asks, a little, like—outraged. "This isn't a PR thing."
"Everything is a PR thing," Susan says. "Your clothes, your hair—"
"Your pose, your stare, the things you think," Dylan suggests. "Your underwear."
"That's funny," Susan says. "But it's also true. Everything you do makes an impression. And that impression decides the kinds of roles you get, and how frequently."
"Funny, and I thought that was about talent," Dylan says. "So what. Dump him, declare myself asexual—"
"God, no," Susan says. "It was a joke. You were joking. Giving the fans what they—"
"Or I could just shit in his mouth," Dylan suggests. "Say, 'this is what you deserve. Who's my little bitch? My secret, dirty little bitch.' How's that."
"Dylan," Susan says, refusing to rise to the bait.
"You know, I already tried the lying thing," Dylan says, weirdly on edge. "I'm kind of over it."
"So don't lie," Susan says. "Just—don't advertise it, either."
"Cross the street when I see a camera," Dylan says, nodding. "'Who, him? I don't know him.' Or, or shove him into oncoming traffic, what, who was that guy? Almost put his arm around me, what an asshole."
"You're friends," Susan says calmly. "You're a tactile person. He's a tactile person." She stops, says, "Tyler Posey is a tactile person."
"Operation: Grab Posey's Ass," Dylan confirms. "Got it."
"I'm not asking you to do anything that makes you uncomfortable," Susan says. "I've seen the two of you. You won't be lying."
"Why even wait for a camera," Dylan agrees. "We should just make a sex tape. Cut out the middle man. We'll call it—" He puts his hands together, brackets them into a title card, and pulls away. "No Homo."
"Sooner or later," Susan says, after a silence so long Dylan almost thinks the call dropped out, "you're going to realize how lucky you are in this moment. Right now? You still have a choice."
And here's the thing, here's the thing: she's right.
Just not the way she means to be.
Here's something Dylan should've done a thousand years ago: taken Tyler on a date. There's this really small pop-up screening of Frequencies, practically private, and popcorn with extra butter, because torturing Hoechlin about his diet will never stop being hilarious. Tyler watches the movie really intently, and Dylan watches Tyler; he's already seen the movie a couple of times, but Tyler'd never even heard of it, and he's a freaking masterpiece of a person, okay, Dylan does not need to justify staring at him. No, not—not literally staring, no; Dylan's blinking at all the regular intervals, coming back to the screen every so often, or flicking popcorn at Tyler's ridiculously serious face, which also doubles as an excellent test of Hoech's illogical fondness for everything Dylan, because his head whips around, but as soon as he identifies the culprit his shoulders go easy again, and he laughs, leans into Dylan's space, and Dylan did not sign up to feel these many things. His shriveled little introvert heart can only handle so much sweetness at once before it just—explodes, like an over-blown balloon.
Then he takes Tyler to dinner, what, like he's an adult. Tyler orders in French, (just to screw with him, all straight-faced and nonchalant, like Dylan doesn't see exactly what he's doing. Hoechlin is such a smug asshole sometimes. Dylan is so on to him) and Dylan attempts to decode the hidden meanings of the wine list, like—there's gotta be a formula, he could totally figure it out given a little more time. That's what he should have been doing today: Googling this restaurant, and familiarizing himself with everything beforehand. That was the plan, but then artfully messing up his hair ate up too much time, and then he realized he had no actual date clothes? Like, old t-shirts, no, some fucking—awards show suit, definitely no, Scott's black-blood soaked red hoodie Dylan accidentally stole from set by forgetting to take it off-slash-ever return it, probably not, but on second thought: maybe. Dylan doesn't have a clue about fashion. Maybe it'd be, like, making a statement.
He panicked, called Colton, who just smirked at him for an endless amount of time and then picked three things out of Dylan's closet that he didn't even know were in there, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, and not a blatant display of black magic, are you serious. Dylan spent most of his life being a little kid, and then a teenage boy, and then an actor: he's never really gotten the hang of dressing himself. There always seems to be someone standing around with a stack of suggestions, and Dylan just goes, "Yeah, yeah yeah yeah, that's nice," and then someone else puts the exact right amount of gel in his hair while he falls asleep in front of the mirror, so when he tries to replicate it at home, he ends up squinting at his reflection with sticky hands and guessing.
Meanwhile, Tyler's beard looks like it was precisely chiseled by freaking Michelangelo. Dylan gives up, he really does.
Tyler's hand reaches out across the table, fingers brushing Dylan's knuckles, his wrist, and Dylan's nicely tipsy, close to tears for no reason at all, something weird and out of control bubbling in his gut, up his throat, impossible to swallow down.
Because this is—so fucking nice, every part of it. Tyler is so fucking nice. And perfect, and Dylan's a crazy person, who thought he didn't want this. Who thought—sure, let's just—hide you in a corner somewhere, no one has to know our business, and Tyler was like, If—if that's what you want, yeah. Yeah, okay.
And Dylan was like, what, he's just a brotherly, just this sweet, like, mentor, like a, like a father figure to me—no butt-fucking, you know? I just wanna clarify: this butt goes untouched. Right, Ty? Right. Cool, fun talk. Always a pleasure to lie directly to your face. What a hilarious fucking joke that would be, me and him—me and him? Ha! I'm laughing, this is mirth-inducing. Humor, we are producing top-quality humor right here.
And Tyler was like, it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter, it's worth it. Dating this asshole when any sane person would do a better job not shoving a massive gag order dick down his throat, totally worth it. Because—because Dylan's funny, sometimes. So, you know—worth it. No regrets.
It's not lying, trying to be happy, but that doesn't mean Tyler wasn't fucking miserable.
And Dylan did that.
Terrific.
They're just walking now, Tyler's fingers knit through Dylan's but slipping away, and Dylan lurches, looks at him, and it takes a minute to register the arm around him instead, and this, this—Getting drunk was not the plan. Getting drunk, that's like, grounds for dismissal, right there. Objection, sustained, what are you doing. You're going to mess this up, it's frankly incredible you haven't messed this up beyond any hope of recovery just by virtue of existing in your natural state.
"I like this," Tyler says, like he's on an entirely different date with someone who isn't aggressively sabotaging everything. He's looking at the blue bruised sky, the glaring streetlights, the crawling LA traffic, and seeing some kind of Instagram photo. Maybe Dylan looks different to him too: lit up, soft and glowing. What a weird fucking thought.
"I like you," Tyler says. "Being with you."
Like it's that simple, like that's the only thing in his head right now: Dylan, and fondness. Dylan can't even do that high.
"How do you, like," Dylan says, and he'll probably regret this when he's sober, but, "focus. On—" He shakes his head, laughs a beat, nervous.
"On?" Tyler says.
"How do you," Dylan says, and then he blurts out, "happy, try to be—How does it work." And that's not—that's not even English. "I mean, just being happy. Without getting distracted, you know?"
"I don't know," Tyler says, considering this. "Like—now? What would I be distracted by?"
"Um," Dylan says, stumped, and then he says, "self loathing, mostly. With just like a side of random minutiae-fed anxiety."
"Now?" Tyler says, and his arm hooks closer around Dylan's shoulders. "What's going on?"
"No," Dylan says, feeling the concerned gaze like a touch. "No, it's not—I mean, welcome to my head, I guess. Just, on any given day." And what, what is this even turning into? Dylan O'Brien therapy hour, that's romantic. Good job.
"Self-loathing," Tyler says, and Dylan wants to punch himself in the face. "I don't—I don't think I could find anything to, to loathe about you if my life depended on it."
"Thing is," Dylan says, voice coming out weird and unsteady, "I think that kinda says more about you than me." This gross sharp wet breath, and this wasn't—None of this was the plan.
"Really," Tyler says. "Lemme just—I'll just call in some backup, if you don't mind."
"Backup," Dylan says, anxiety shooting up to eleven. "That's—What are you doing?"
"'Held at gunpoint,'" Tyler pretends to read off his phone. "'Need three reasons to loathe Dylan and they'll let me go.' Let's see what the people think."
"Don't you dare," Dylan says fervently.
Tyler looks at him, pockets his phone. "I wouldn't," he says. "I'm just—making a point."
"Is the point, 'I can totally make Dylan shit himself'?" Dylan asks. "Because, if so—Congratulations."
"I'm serious," Tyler says. "People love you. They're not all in denial, or missing something."
"People don't know me," Dylan says, unimpressed. "Who even are people. And this isn't, like, a logic thing. I know that."
"It isn't," Tyler says.
"Mostly," Dylan says. "Probably. Whatever, this isn't—You don't need to set up an, an intervention. I'm not looking at methods, I'm fine."
"Methods," Tyler says.
Dylan makes a vague noose-yanking gesture, rolls his eyes. "Okay? Awesome. Glad we had this talk." He lets out a huff, scrubs his hand over his face. "Really set a mood, you know. I bet you've never been more aroused."
"Dylan," Tyler says, exasperated, but he's smiling despite himself, like he can't help it, like he's just so fucking charmed by Dylan, all the time.
Well, Dylan'll take this out, absolutely.
"You are, aren't you," he says, mock-accusingly. "I really hit on something there. Emotional intimacy gets you in the mood."
"You're ridiculous," Tyler says, but he's not laughing.
It's weird, not working: like, unnerving. Dylan doesn't know what to do with himself. This time last year Dylan's schedule was so jam-packed he was falling asleep in the shower. Now he's in his empty apartment, marathoning Transparent, hair an ungelled mess, pants optional. Which isn't entirely terrible. It's a good show, and it's cool to actually have time to watch something he isn't in, something where his performance isn't a factor. It's just that two episodes from now he'll have to find another show, or start counting his eyelashes for fun, because Tyler's off shooting the role of Hot Something, always an underrated performance, and Posey's busy with Teen Wolf, and also, Dylan accidentally started blowing him off after his grand death scene-slash-panic attack, and now he doesn't know how to stop.
He doesn't want a pity party, and he doesn't want to be around Posey if he's gonna be moody and weird, and, like, passive-aggressive without even meaning to. Posey doesn't need that kind of negativity. Last time they got high Dylan was freshly dumped and completely nihilistic in the worst way, and Dylan's not looking to replicate the experience. Hoechlin's so chill, he can handle anything Dylan throws at him, but Posey, Posey's—suggestible. And he's got bigger stuff than Dylan ever did to fixate on, if he's gonna fixate on something. Dylan, he's an asshole, but he's not that much of an asshole. Some people are just better off not thinking. Dylan'd be the first to check that box, if he could. He's not tipping anyone else into his head space if he can avoid it.
He's rewatching what. on Netflix when he gets a text from Alex Saxon, which says,
Congratulations, man
and nothing else. And for a few seconds he doesn't even know what he's looking at, and then he's still pretty sure he doesn't know what he's looking at, even with the second text, the third:
You're gonna be great
Stiles is awesome
Even with his heart suddenly pounding out of control. He hesitates, texts back, whaat?
Micah, Alex replies. It was you or me right? Well it's not me
Which—that's insane, that means Dylan's last-ditch YouTube audition risk actually worked.
you'll get the next one, he texts with fumbling fingers. He can't, he still can't completely believe it. Aside from anything else, he knows for a fact that Alex did better than he did in the chemistry test with Felicity.
Definitely, Alex sends back, and Dylan feels kind of bad for a minute. Alex is a good guy, easy to hang with, and he wanted this as bad as Dylan does. They're both MTV kids, both playing the most likeable guy on their shows—well, Dylan used to, anyway. Way back at that first audition, recognizing each other, they'd promised to be cool whoever got it.
Well, Dylan's cool. He's so cool, he feels like he might throw up a little, or cry. Not entirely real, not sure what even to do with himself, except he needs to look at that script—No, he needs to read the book again—No, he needs to call Tyler, have a nervous breakdown in front of him, needs to fucking—blow him, for how this turned out, for being the reason for how this turned out.
guess what, he texts.
hey guess whattt
yoooooo
pick up your phoooooooone
"Dylan," Tyler says, and Dylan's so amped up, the look on Tyler's face doesn't really sink in.
"Guess who's about to play a guy who loses his chiiiild," Dylan jokes, and promptly realizes he is not Bo Burnam, and shock humor is terrible, when Tyler doesn't even crack a smile. "I think I'm going to pass out," Dylan confesses. "Ignore me, I'm like, naturally high right now."
Tyler just kind of looks—confused.
"Susan called you?" he says, and for a moment Dylan remembers Susan's talk, and wants to call her up, like, make up a dance called I Was Right, You Were Wrong (The Not-Hiding-My-Boyfriend Song). YouTube, he'll be a YouTube kid again, it'll be worth it.
Then it dawns on him that Tyler still—doesn't look happy. Like, he looks like Derek, frowning and with his brows coming together for a little brow pow-wow.
"What," Dylan says.
"No, it's just—" Tyler's never looked so out of it. "Susan said you got it?"
"Alex," Dylan says, and when that doesn't change Tyler's face one bit, he adds, "Saxon. The other top two dude. They're not going with him."
Some of the confusion sweeps away, and then Tyler just looks—bummed. Which, why—this is the dream, this is, like, all the weight off Dylan's back, finally, all his anxiety gone—most of his anxiety—some of his anxiety gone. Whatever, it's still incredible.
"I, uh," Tyler says. Eyes apologetic, why's he apologetic? Dylan should fucking propose to him, lock this shit down here and now before things get crazy and Dylan's schedule shuts down his personal life again. "I got a message," Tyler says. "On Twitter. A DM."
And, Dylan knows this. Downside of following fans: occasionally, you will get weird private messages that make you really uncomfortable.
But—no, that's not Tyler's embarrassed face. His ears aren't even a little bit pink. Dylan's way off on this.
"Emma saw the video," Tyler says.
"Emma," Dylan says blankly. Then, "Emma Donoghue? What's she think?"
"She thinks, ah," Tyler says, uncomfortably. "She wants to meet me."
"You," Dylan says, and Tyler tenses, and Dylan didn't—that wasn't—What? "Cool," he tries, tries to be. "Like, because—"
"For the role," Tyler says, a little stiffly. "She wants me to play Micah."