"I didn't pass out, whoa," Dylan says. "So dramatic. I got a little lightheaded, that's all."

Is waking up in a hospital bed again a surprise? Maybe a little bit. But Dylan was enjoying that bathroom floor, okay, this is his life. If he wants to crash in prime puking position, nice cool linoleum against his skin, what's the crime in that?

"You were unconscious," Posey says.

"I was napping," Dylan says. "Closed my eyes for a second. Jeez."

"It wasn't a second," Tyler says.

Dylan groans, shuts his eyes so hard he sees constellations.

"You're in the hospital," Tyler says. "You could've died. This isn't a joke."

"Not my fault you have no sense of humor," Dylan says. He risks a peek through low-lidded eyes: Tyler's not even blinking at the bait, just looking like a freakin' concerned parent trying not to sigh. A week ago Dylan was feelin' this guy up on the regular. Now he's pretty much his sponsor.

Dylan kind of wants to die.

"You can talk to me, man," Posey says. "Or one of the doctors—they're here to help you."

"Or we can find someone," Tyler says. "An expert. You don't have to deal with this alone."

There's a steady headache thumping away just between Dylan's eyes. Steady nausea rising all through him.

He shuts his mouth hard, doesn't say anything.

Tyler goes to get coffee; Posey needs an emergency shit. These are the things Dylan's friends apologize for, now. This is what his life has become.

The cutest girl Dylan has ever seen drops by in the meantime to see how he's doing. Tyler's been really worried about you, she says.

"Yeah? Right back at him," Dylan says. "Who are you?"

"Camille Rodriguez," says Camille Rodriguez, apparently. "I'm a friend of Tyler's."

"Coolio," Dylan says. "Well, nice meeting you."

"He still hasn't answered her," Camille says. "Emma whoever. Not a single tweet."

"I told him to take it," Dylan says, shrugging. It's like this weird twitch: he means to, and then he doesn't, and it's happening without him. Wonderful, he's making a fantastic impression on Hoechlin's obviously much more appropriate love interest.

"He idolizes you," Camille says. "Don't you get that? He'd do anything for you. Throw his whole life away."

"I don't know what you want me to say," Dylan says. He hits his itching shoulder still, super casually transitions to rubbing the back of his neck. The weird plastic clothespin thing on his finger makes a surprisingly good back-scratcher.

"You're an actor," Camille says. "Allegedly. So Tyler got a job you wanted, so what? Do you love him or don't you? Let him have this."

"Whoa, 'allegedly,'" Dylan says. "Someone get me some ice for this burn, am I right? Call a doctor, because I am, I am down."

"I don't know what he sees in you," Camille says. "But—"

"It's my beard, mostly," Dylan says. "Very covert. Slightly reminiscent of pubic hair. Lured the poor guy in like a beacon."

"But if it's even a shred of empathy," Camille says, unimpressed, "then stop him from pushing away the biggest break he's gonna get."

"Now he just stares longingly at my chin, hoping—no, praying for the day he'll catch a glimpse of it again," Dylan says, really warming up to a theme. "Sometimes he just gazes out a window and thinks back to the time when he and my beard were together. Those fond, yet bittersweet memories."

"Just think about it," Camille says. "If you care about him at all."

"'Patchy,' he still calls into the dark, moonlit night," Dylan calls out at her as she goes. "'Patchy, please. We could be something!'"

She doesn't turn around.

The paps try to corner Tyler on reentry; now Dylan's spaztastic breakdown is a full-fledged walk-through experience. Posey puts security on the door, like Dylan's hospital room is an exclusive nightclub, or whatever other gig has a dude at the door doing security. Dylan's not the biggest partier, himself, unless you're basing it all on the morning after. Then he's the coolest cat in town. Real Carlos Danger, over here. Rodney Dangerfield. Danger, choking hazard. May contain small parts.

"So, Camille," he says, when Tyler resurfaces from behind his coffee. He got permission to get Dylan milk. This is life on the edge, people: permission for milk. Punk rock theme song! "She's fun."

"You met her?" Tyler says.

Dylan can't fault milk, actually; you don't realize how much your mouth tastes like horse balls until it doesn't, anymore.

"While you were out," he says. "You never responded to Emma Donoghue?"

"And I won't," Tyler promises. "I told you. I'll tell my agent too. Thanks but no thanks."

"That's not what I want, man," Dylan says. He feels kind of sick. "You deserve this shot, don't be stupid."

"I've made up my mind," Tyler says. "I'm done confusing my priorities."

"It's not either/or," Dylan says.

"I almost lost you," Tyler says, and Dylan just about passes out from the intensity in his voice. "I don't care about anything else. Anything."

"That's," Dylan says, trying not to wheeze. "That's really, um." He might be the hardest he's ever been. "Shit."

"What is it?" Tyler asks.

"Who knew I had a caring kink," Dylan says. "I mean, you're always so fucking nice—"

He instantly regrets it; Tyler looks horrified.

"I'm not," Tyler says. "I'm not trying to—I'm sorry."

"Dude," Dylan says, his face flaming. What did he say? Not a clue. Doesn't matter, it was clearly terrible. "We can just, why don't we just pretend I never said that? Objection, sustained, jury will disregard."

"No," Tyler says. "That's not what I'm saying. You don't owe me anything."

"Sure," Dylan says. "I'm just gonna put this out there: I have no idea what you're talking about."

"I'm not a nice guy," Tyler says, like a much, much more attractive, but also very wrong Edward Cullen.

"Uh huh," Dylan says. "My mistake. All this time I've been totally blind to all the ways you're a selfish asshole. You know what they say about love. And justice. And Stevie Wonder."

"What?" Tyler says.

"They're blind," Dylan says.

Tyler doesn't even roll his eyes.

"When was the last time you slept?" Dylan says.

"I'm," Tyler says. He swallows. "I'm not tired."

"You're something," Dylan says.

"I want you to tell me," Tyler says. "If I'm pressuring you. I'll back off."

"Pressuring me to what?" Dylan says. This is it, this is the moment where Dylan's—whatever's wrong with him—goes nuclear and starts taking over the world like H1N1 was supposed to. "Take a breath, Ty, everything's gonna be okay."

"I'm—" Tyler shakes his head. "Don't worry about me."

"No, listen," Dylan says. The milk is maybe going rancid in his throat. "This whole thing, all my shit? It's not on you. You didn't sign up for this."

"I'm signing up now," Tyler says. He takes Dylan's hand in both of his, holds his gaze. "I'm gonna be here. Whatever you need."

"I just wanna go back to how things were," Dylan says. He's a little lightheaded just looking Tyler in the face. "Y'know, pretend I'm still somewhat attractive. If you squint."

"Dylan," Tyler says, helplessly. "That's—You have to know you're attractive. I don't know how you can dispute that."

He's doing that face, that serious-eyed Derek face, but combined with his Passionate Romantic Lead face. And this—this is just one more example. Tyler hasn't slept in a day, maybe two. Hasn't showered or shaved or switched clothes, and he still looks ready to represent at the Inhumanly Hot People/Gods Awards. Dylan doesn't even wanna think about how he looks right now. Pale and pube-stubbly and dark circles like two black eyes, sweaty hair and probably herpe-ish acne, some super flattering open-assed hospital gown, a million moles everywhere. This is why it's so fucking insane for anyone to think Dylan's trying to keep up; the only thing he and Hoechlin have in common are how they've been tearing up, which just brings out the green in Tyler's eyes.

"It's a mystery," Dylan says.

"You are," Tyler says, looking disturbed. "Of course you're attractive. You can't seriously—How do you not know that?"

"Because I'm funny," Dylan says, tired of this. "You know what they say, everyone wants a guy with a sense of—"

"And funny," Tyler says, looking at him seriously. "But that's not—You're beautiful." The tips of his ears go red, then the rest of him. "Handsome," he amends. "Hot. All of it."

"America's Next Top Model," Dylan suggests, doing a little hospital bed booty tooch, flexing nonexistent abs.

"I'm serious," Tyler says. "I wouldn't just—butter you up, you know that."

"Do I know that?" Dylan asks. "I've called you hot approximately six billion times. You started thinking I was beautiful, lets see, uh," he checks the invisible watch on his wrist, "four seconds ago."

"Don't play stupid," Tyler says. "I know you get come-ons on Twitter all the time. There are huge masses of people in love with you."

"For being funny," Dylan says. "For being Stiles."

"Oh my God," Tyler bursts out, heaving a massive sigh, shaking his head. "That too. But—everything, everything I see in you, they see it too. I'm not—You're the only one who doesn't see how amazing you are."

"Yeah, you always say stuff like that," Dylan says. "Just not about my—looks, or—"

"Because I thought it was obvious," Tyler says. "Because that's—" He ducks his head, scoffs at his knees. "That's all anyone ever has to say, with me." He aims a glare at the floor, adds, slightly mockingly, "'At least he's pretty.'" A tight smile slips back into place, goes almost natural. "So it—doesn't really feel like a compliment, anymore. Like, thanks? Thank my parents, I guess."

"C'mon," Dylan says, a little helplessly. "That's—I never meant it like that."

"No, I know," Tyler says, still sounding fake as hell, like he's doing some interview.

"I swear," Dylan says. "Your attractiveness is like, sixth on the list of reasons why anyone'd have to be an idiot not to like you."

"Really," Tyler says dubiously.

"Swear to god," Dylan says. "Like, first of all, Mets cred. Day one. And have I mentioned stealing scenes from Tom Hanks? At like, what, fourteen?"

"I didn't..." Tyler starts. Dylan raises his eyebrows in challenge. "What scene?"

"Okay, so that part where he comes into Michael's room and hugs him? And there's, like, all this baggage between them, it's crazy. But he's still your dad." Dylan looks at Tyler, who's suddenly stock still, mouth caught open, just watching him. "And then, that last scene? Just before the voice-over kicks in. Broke my fucking heart, man."

"You're just—"

"Don't even, dude," Dylan says. "If I have to learn to take a compliment, so do you. In fact, I'm making up for lost time, right now. Why do you think I liked Derek so much? I'm serious. It wasn't Jeff giving him all of two character traits, okay, it was you. What you brought to it."

Tyler's blushing so bad he's practically luminescent, staring at his sneakers, then back up at Dylan, searching his face for a hint of a lie.

"That's why it pissed me off so bad when he threw out our scenes," Dylan says. "Your scenes. Like we really need that hundredth make-out session more than actually letting Derek be hum—well not human, I guess, but—you know what I mean. With his mom, or—any of it. Or bringing in that de-aging stuff, and just wasting you, what was that?"

Tyler's eyes are bright green, and just bright, but he's still got this awful look on his face, like he's ready to laugh if this turns out to be some long-winded joke.

"You know what I think?" Dylan says. "I think he was trying to prove he didn't need you to have Derek on the show. That he could go back to writing the story he wanted, without Sterek, or any of your ideas—"

Tyler's face falls, drags Dylan's gut with it.

"He couldn't," Dylan says. "Even with Ian—that kid does a scary good impression of your mannerisms, it's unreal—even with him, he couldn't do it. He couldn't replace you. Couldn't even come close." He levers himself upright, palms at Tyler's tensed shoulder. "I just missed you, Ty. It drove me insane, you know? Him trying to fill this hole you left like that, with mini-you and Malia and all this two-bit shit. It never made any fucking sense."

"People seemed to like it," Tyler says. "My last episodes. I didn't have to be Derek, or act, or anything. Just—on screen. In bed, or—"

"I couldn't watch it," Dylan says. "With Braeden, right, she's—great, y'know, that pool cue intro was actually really bad-ass, but, like—Why's Derek suddenly such a suave relationships guy? Didn't he just get out of being mind-raped by Jennifer?"

"I know!" Tyler says. "And Kate, and Braeden's worked for hunters."

"Shit," Dylan says feelingly. "And Stiles—like, I get it, he's a teenager, but—Holland's dating a cop. And Danny had a full-on sex scene with like, the identical dynamics, so—"

"And your scene," Tyler says. "'I missed you.' You came up with that."

"That's not even," Dylan says. "Stiles beat up Scott for letting his dad get hurt. I almost walked off set."

"And Scott let him," Tyler guesses. "Held him."

"'It's okay, Stiles, you can hit me,'" Dylan says. "'I can take it.'" He makes a face. "I've never been such a crabby little bitch in front of Posey before. Like, 'don't even touch me, I can't—'"

"I love you," Tyler breathes. "I should have texted it back. I should've—Talking's hard, sometimes. I knew that."

"Saint Hoechlin," Dylan says. "Bullet point three. You're so considerate."

"Shut up," Tyler says, ears pinking, head ducking down.

"Like, too much," Dylan says. "Did you see that video? Like, your side of it. How perfect you were. Playing some Coachella-reject soccer mom, and making it literally the saddest thing I've ever seen. But in the best way."

"Don't—" Tyler says.

"What, blaspheme the sacred name of Dylan?" Dylan asks. "You were better than me, Ty. I'm not being fucking humble, I'm saying I'll be pissed if you don't take the fucking job. 'Cause I wanna see that movie."

"I'm busy," Tyler says. "I'm gonna be here, and then... Harvest is gonna take at least a few weeks to wrap, even if this is the last draft. And then there's press for Vertigo—the spy one," he reminds Dylan. "And I don't even—I'll blow it off for you. Not for some dumb—"

"You're dumb," says Dylan O'Brien, famed witticist. "You can't put your whole life on hold trying to make me happy, man. That's not how happy works."

"Fine," Tyler says. "I'll take it. If you talk to someone."

"Yo," Dylan says. "Done. No takebacks."

"You know what I mean," Tyler says, but he's laughing.

For a moment, the tsunami in Dylan's gut almost settles.