"Makes sense," Dylan decides. "Yeah, yeah yeah yeah. I mean, you stole scenes from Tom Hanks. No shit you stole them from me."
In Dylan's head, in the split second of vetting before the words spill out of his mouth, it's a compliment.
Tyler blinks at him, and then his mouth smiles ahead of the rest of his face, and he says, "She said she doesn't wanna make the movie without me."
Dylan whistles, impressed.
It's not supposed to sound sarcastic.
Tyler's smile flatlines. "I," he says. Glaring down at something off camera—the floor, or his sneakers. "I didn't know this was gonna—"
"No, I know," Dylan says, face hot, hands cold. "What, like you need me for a career boost."
Tyler flinches, and really, Dylan just needs to stop talking, stop trying to be cool when he obviously can't sell it.
"You don't, I'm saying," Dylan says, against all instincts. "You have like, what, four movies in production right now? The, the spy one, right, and then, uh, Hot Something, then the one with all the gore, you texted me that picture from the makeup chair, and then the, oh! The baseball one, that one seems really cool."
"Yeah," Tyler says. "That about sums it up." His jaw is doing a Derek thing.
Faraway, underwater, Dylan's gut is in knots looking at him, but none of it is really registering over the sour taste in his mouth.
"But yeah, do my movie," Dylan says. "I mean, obviously it isn't, so. Go for it."
"My agent'll fire me if I don't," Tyler says, and for a second he's pleading, eyes wide, horribly exposed, Dylan's stomach swooping—
"Good," Dylan says, and nods, and he means, Yeah, fine, do it, but Tyler's eyes go huge and then shutter and then—Tyler's hand fills the screen, and he's gone.
That's not what I meant, Dylan should text Tyler like, immediately, but he doesn't.
It's—Dylan has a problem, sometimes, with resentfulness. Not even a problem, he's not—it's never really affected his life before, so he never really made an effort to tamp down on it.
Justin Bieber, for example. Guy just seems like a tool. Like, even before he cheated on Selena, Dylan had that one nailed: he's just, like, the worst. And sure, that realization just so happened to coincide with him seeing the girl of Dylan's pre-pubescent dreams, but that doesn't make it wrong. They can break up, claim to be friends, Justin can go to church and do this apology tour, but Dylan isn't buying it. Selena Gomez herself couldn't change his mind.
And that's fine, because Dylan's never gonna get any facetime with the dude anyway. It's not like he's gonna be in the next cubicle over, or behind the camera telling Dylan what to do. Dylan's never had to swallow down his feelings, or, like, fake fondness, pretend everything's cool between them.
Not that this feels anything like that. It's just that Dylan can't see himself relaxing with Bieber, chilling out and just hanging. Even if it's petty, even if he's being an emotional five year old. Even if he wanted to be an adult about it, he can't shake the edge in his voice, the way everything comes out weird and pointed.
And that's—now, Dylan needs to get over that instinct, like, right now. Before he does something really stupid, before this shitty, petty side of his completely sets the most secure part of his life on fire.
It's just that there's this hollow feeling in his gut, this buzz under his skin, this endless rumbling in his head, this was his chance. Dylan's last chance to resuscitate his flagging career, to get things back on track after bomb after movie bomb, after getting fired from a fucking MTV show that might just be the most notable part of his IMDB page, forever. That this really might be his life now: sitting in front of his laptop, watching House of Cards because Hoechlin has opinions he refuses to share for fear of spoiling Dylan in the off chance he ever got into this incredibly boring Scandal-without-any-actual-scandals show. Also, blatant dog murder, that's fun for the whole family. When in doubt: dog murder. Dylan doesn't watch TV to watch acts of terrorism, okay, that's not a selling point. Cover Dylan in puppies and he's the happiest dude he'll ever manage to be. This? This is the least fun a viewing experience could possibly be.
Now, now see this: A wild Dylan in captivity. Isolated, pining for his mate, he writes endless amounts of passive-aggressive texts he doesn't dare send, and deletes them, and then writes a million empty apologies, and then tries to get into Game of Thrones again despite the rape and all the general Why would anyone ever watch this-ness of it all. Despondent, he marathons Crazy Ex-Girlfriend and then every YouTube video on Rachel Bloom's channel, and questions if he ever was a YouTube star at all. He was just messing around, just—his whole career was him just messing around.
And now it's over.
Because you can't come back from that. From getting fired, and running out of a major audition, and then risking it all as some last-ditch effort to work up some fan-pushed petition or something, and everyone coming back from it like, "Nah, we're good. Your boyfriend's really hot though, what's his number?"
And the fact is—the fact is, Dylan's not some, some delusional optimist, okay. He knows what happens now. Tyler blows up as Micah, wins an Oscar or enough acclaim that he's avalanched with brilliant scripts, and forgets all about bitter loser Dylan O'Barely Funny in about ten seconds. Meanwhile, Dylan gets a new cat for ever Academy Award nom or snub, and is eventually found half-eaten in his apartment when the neighbors start to smell something. Pan in on his laptop screen, Netflix pop-up mocking, Are you still watching "My Little Pony: Friendship Is Magic"? Freeze, roll credits.
And—and you know what, fine. Just-moved-to-California Dylan would be satisfied with that, with ever getting that far. It's more than he ever could've believed for himself. So—so just suck it up, Dylan. You got lucky, you got spoiled, now it's over. Get over yourself. One-year-in-California Dylan would be stunned to still be alive, right now. So, congratulations. You hit a home run, now the game's over, you can't just stand around the empty pitch like you own the place. Just take your trophy, sign some fangirl's DVDs, and figure out what the rest of your life looks like. Text your stupidly perfect boyfriend and enjoy these five seconds where he still remembers your name.
take the job, he texts Tyler.
hey
heyy
take the jobbbbbbbb
do iiiiiiiit
blow their socks off
and shoes
unless their feet stink
shoes on socks off
i'm glad we've resolved this
33
that's not two hearts by the way
it's two butts
because i FUCKIN' love you
do it do it do it
or face my eternal wrath :{
that's evil mustache dylan btw
very very intimidating
ps sorry for being a passive aggressive jealous dick :(
There, that should do it.
Dylan really doesn't know how he ever talked to anyone before texting was a thing.
… Tyler messages back.
For an age and a half, just "…"
Then Tyler calls him.
Which, no, no. Noh, oh oh oh, no.
Being supportive and goofy by text? Yeah, maybe Dylan can do that. But actually convincing Ty he's okay, like, face-to-face? Danger. Red alert, will not work. Will, in fact, be hella counterproductive, because regardless of what Dylan knows, and wants, and is trying desperately to convey, it turns out that when it comes to real life feelings, Dylan is an incredibly shitty actor.
fun fact: he texts. if i picked up facetime now, you'd get to watch me take a shit
i mean i don't know
maybe that's something you're into
we've never really gone deep kinks-wise
fyi watched human centipede in my formative years and don't feel that incredibly scarred by it?
like who knows, maybe that's where i got my irrational fear of needles
but overall, i'm open to suggestions
Tyler doesn't answer.
It's fine; it's fine. It's just that Dylan is either developing stomach cancer or so stressed he's getting a gut ulcer. Which—hey, his brain interjects, remember when you told the whole teenage world you have herpes on the cast commentary of the Teen Wolf pilot? Humiliating, am I right? Okay, back to what you were thinkin' about. We now return to our regularly scheduled programming. PS: Kill yourself.
It's none of those things, he knows: the truth is, he's pregnant. The truth is he's not pregnant, he's cramping, he's losing the baby. The problem with all that is, without Hoechlin next to him, head thrown back, shoulders shaking, none of that feels remotely funny.
You know what helps with cramps? Masturbation. Gettin' handsy with your... man...dsy. You know who boners remind Dylan of? Here's a hint: Jeff Davis once wrote him a scene where he did nothing but gasp and shiver shirtless, just to justify a year of half-starving him while also taping his feet to a treadmill and his palms to those weights that can totally snap your spine if they slip out of your sweaty hands. You know, the kind of workout where you need to have another guy as backup so you don't get your ribcage crushed. Did Dylan ever do that kind of workout? No, he ate Doritos and laughed, and also spit that taste of bogus "chocolate" protein shake into the sink, because he has the empathy of a common house fly.
Those are sure to be some of Hoechlin's fondest Dylan memories before any recollection of a Dylan whatsoever completely fades from his head like the family in that Back To The Future photo.
Tyler, he thought if he put that much effort into getting in shape for the role, there'd be, you know, a role at the end of it. An actual storyline, some—character growth.
How fucking depressing is that?
And that's why Dylan can't—can't ever be bitter at him for this. It's been a looooong freaking time coming, Dylan knows that. And if it was any other movie, any other role, Dylan would be the first one throwing Tyler a party about it.
And he still wants to, he still wants to be a, a proud papa about it. To make up a celebration dance, to take Ty out to dinner again, to run lines with him, all of it.
It's just that every time he tries, his mouth just spills vitriol, just makes things worse and worse.
So he's got rules: no face-to-face interaction. No vocals, no anything. Just very, very careful texting, and privately swimming in his own dejection, not infecting anyone else. He's, he's under official quarantine until he can get his shit together, stop caring so freaking much.
And as soon as he's got the role down, as soon as he can do a good impression of a more mature human being, he can get back to civilization. So: training starts now, Dyl. It's your own time you're wasting, c'mon now.
"I'm a tool," Dylan tries. Makes a face. "I'm a fucking tool," he tells himself, tells the Tyler in his head. "Ignore, like, my face, and the way my voice sounds, and whatever stupid thing I said, what I meant was..."
No, nope, nothing even slightly believable.
That's fine. That's just awesome.
Dylan just can't talk to another human being until he gets a freaking lobotomy, that's all.