"I'd say if I spent one more day in this room I'll lose my mind, but," Dylan says brightly.
Tyler looks up, swallows a frown. "You didn't lose your mind."
"Then I'm about to," Dylan says. "I'm, like, legit going The Yellow Wallpaper here. Or getting Charles Bonnet Syndrome, I don't know."
Tyler sighs. "Stop diagnosing yourself."
"What, I'm the only one who doesn't get a try?" Dylan says. His tone is light, expression teasing, but Tyler's careful anyway. He can't shake the feeling this conversation is a mousetrap, about to snap shut and decapitate him any minute.
Yesterday Dr. Adams suggested a support group. It's mostly people in recovery from anorexia or bulimia, he said, but there are a few EDNOS cases too.
"There's a Christmas classic ruined," Dylan said. "Rudolph the EDNOS reindeer. Poor guy can't take being picked on and starves himself to death. Happy holidays, kids."
"Some people find it very helpful," Dr. Adams said, ignoring that. "It's common to think no one understands what you're going through. That sharing your innermost feelings would just push people away. That's simply not true in a support group."
"Or at all," Tyler said. He couldn't help giving the doctor a judgmental look before focusing back on Dylan, who was nodding like an automaton, a smile fixed on his face. "It wouldn't push me away. Or Tyler. Or anyone who isn't a jerk."
"Ooh, 'jerk,'" Dylan said. "Hoechlin's feeling naughty today. Might take Gosh's name in vain, next."
It looks like normal teasing, sounds funny enough, until it isn't. And Tyler has no idea what to do, then, what to say, when Dylan looks down at nothing, mutters, "I get it, okay. You don't have to humor me."
Tyler's just looking at him, trying to formulate some kind of response, and Dylan says, his voice too quiet, "I know how much it weirds you out that we ever—Now that it's so fucking obvious how pathetic I am. You don't have to sit by my bedside like I'm some superfan dying of a brain tumor. You can just move on with your life."
What do you say to that? What's the right response? Tyler doesn't know, but he's sure he's getting it wrong. Sometimes they have whole conversations and they're fine, Dylan even seems happy, but then he gets quiet, and his jokes aren't jokes anymore, and Tyler can't convince him they're real anymore, that this isn't some—good deed he's doing, charity work. "Saint Hoechlin," Dylan says, and it doesn't mean anything good, it means stop lying. Stop being so fucking nice. Punch me in the face and storm out and never come back, then maybe I'll finally believe you.
"I love you," Tyler says, and tries not to get too emotional, make this about himself. It's too easy, something in him tensing, then the lump in his throat; too easy to get distracted by your own feelings, but he can't. That's not what this is, it's not personal. Dylan doesn't mean it like that.
Whatever Tyler's feeling, whatever's welling through him, any kind of fear or insecurity, it's nothing compared to what Dylan's own mind is doing to him. And Tyler can't stop it, can't turn it around. Can't grab that dark part of Dylan and shake him, say, Stop it, stop it. Stop this. I love you, can't you trust me? What do I have to do?
Eyes prickling even thinking about it, tension in his shoulders, the shadow of that old twitch. But Tyler just needs to power through it. Be here, no matter what.
Anyone can say anything. Actions speak louder.
"You think you have to say that," Dylan says. "Just in case you dumped me and I offed myself. But I'm not your responsibility, dude. Go live your life, seriously."
"Is that," Tyler says, watching his face, trying to—He's never said it so seriously, like it could really happen. And all at once Tyler's sure he means it. That it's really a possibility. "Promise me you won't."
And Dylan just—nods, like that confirmed some deep-seated suspicion, exactly. "Don't worry, Ty, I couldn't do that to you. I know how much you care."
The worst part of that is how bad Tyler wants to believe it.
And how sure he is that that would be the worst mistake he's ever made.
Posey comes back with Dylan's laptop. Tyler should've thought of that. He can't believe he didn't. Of course Dylan's feeling low, worse than ever, when there's nothing to do all day but watch TV and think and overthink. Understimulation—even Tyler has his phone. Camille's sent about a thousand texts. Pages and pages of animated stickers. A couple of selfies, usually her reacting to an especially awkward line in the new sides. Voice messages of her reading them while doing various celebrity impressions. Her Nicki Minaj is especially poignant.
Brittany's almost done with press and wants to get together. Colton and Ian are either tentatively dating or pulling an incredibly elaborate prank. Either way, it wouldn't be the first time.
The point is, Tyler's had his fill of social interaction. Dylan's just had him, and Posey, usually trying to get him to talk about something depressing. And somehow he's feeling depressed? Go figure.
Dylan's phone bleeps. Tyler nods to it.
"You gonna get that?"
"Nope," Dylan says brightly.
"I think you should get it." Tyler says. "Could be important."
"I am officially letting the other shoe drop without me," Dylan says. "If the plane's going down, I'm keeping my eyes shut, thanks."
Tyler says nothing, just brings his phone toward his face theatrically and sends another message.
Dylan's phone bleeps again.
Dylan looks at it. Looks at Tyler, who should be winning a Razzie for his interpretation of Man Intently Texting.
"Seriously?"
"Uh uh," Tyler says. "I can't hear you. I'm trapped behind this soundproof glass wall." He puts his free hand up and around, patting the air, mime style.
Dylan stares at him.
"It's too bad Dylan can't hear me," Tyler stage-mutters, maybe blushing a little bit by now. "I just had this really cool idea for our movie. Thought we could talk about it."
"I really worry about you sometimes," Dylan says, but he's thisclose to laughing.
"Mmhm," Tyler hums. "I know Dylan can't hear me, and I'm not busy texting, so I guess I'll just... sing myself a little song."
"No," Dylan says, disbelieving. "I have never heard you sing. I don't think you know how."
"You're right," Tyler says, smirking. "Is what I would say if anyone told me I couldn't sing. I can't. But why should that stop me?"
"I can't," Dylan says, picking up his phone. "I can't, I can't enable this. I'll never be able to take you seriously again."
"Serious is overrated," Tyler says, but he doesn't go through with it. Singing really isn't one of his talents. He's been told this by people who normally would lie to semi-famous people if they were, say, anything above painful at it.
His phone vibrates in his hand. He checks it, looks up at Dylan, who's furiously thumbing at his screen. Tyler's phone vibrates again.
Tyler grins.
Disaster strikes when Dylan searches his name on Twitter, finds some gossip roundup article. He and Tyler are fake, "Gossip King" says. A "reliable source" says it was just PR for his "desperate YouTube audition." That he knows his career is going down in flames, and he'd do anything to resurrect it—even gay baiting. That Tyler, his own career stagnant for years, is all too happy to play along for the cameras.
"That's not," Tyler says. It takes a few seconds to swallow the bile in his throat. "That's garbage, you know that."
"This isn't," Dylan says, and scrolls down. The blind item's been updated, solved. The conclusion? It was all a wasted effort. Terminal's official Twitter account, aTerminalthemovie, "quietly congratulated Alex Saxon a few hours ago."
There's a link, and there it is.
Terminal aTerminalTheMovie
[ Felicity Jones aFelicityJonesOfficial: aALXSXN welcome to the family :) ]
With no "official contract" in play, Gossip King surmises, "expect a breakup within the next few months. Sorry, Hobrien fans. Some things really are too good to be true."
"'Ho—'?" Tyler starts.
"Us," Dylan says. "Like Sterek's Stiles and Derek. And that's not real either."
"I wanted it to be," Tyler says.
"Yeah," Dylan says, but he's gone quiet again.
"You have to respond to her," Dylan announces. Tyler's been texting him, trying that same joke again, with no success. Dylan just curled into a ball on his side, turned away. But now he sits up, animated. "Emma Donoghue. Blame me, say you haven't checked Twitter in weeks, do whatever. Just get her back on your side."
"I'll try," Tyler says. "But if I can't—it's okay. We'll write something better."
"What?" Dylan says blankly.
"Our movie," Tyler says. "You and me. That's what we should focus on."
It's not enough; Dylan's still nervy, his hands trembling a little bit.
"I want you to direct," Tyler decides.
"What? No way," Dylan says, lighting up with panic. "I've never even—I always thought I'd watch the greats, you know? For years and years. Pick it up that way." His expression goes thoughtful for a second, but he shakes his head. "You can't just jump in."
"You did," Tyler says. "With Stiles. You didn't need training, you were a natural. And you've already directed me into the best performance I've done in fourteen years," he points out. "Maybe ever. I trust you."
"You're ridiculous," Dylan says, staring at him. "How are you even, like, real. And not some insane fantasy, I don't..."
"No one ever got me there before you," Tyler says.
Dylan's eyes bug. "Really?"
"No," Tyler says, smirking. "See? I'm not a fantasy. I'm—"
"An asshole," Dylan grouches.
"You love it," Tyler says, unconvinced.
"Yeah, I do," Dylan says.
"It could be real," Tyler says. "Stiles and Derek. We could do it. Not for cameras," he adds quickly, thinking of the awful Gossip King post. "Just... for us. You said it yourself, our scenes were better than the ones that made it."
"Stiles is dead," Dylan says.
"Not anymore," Tyler says. "Derek just resurrected him. He's, he's a werecreature now. Not a werewolf," he redirects, at the look on Dylan's face. "Something new. You decide."
"I liked him human," Dylan says. "Vulnerable, you know? But still strong. Just—the stakes kind of disappear if you can just keep coming back."
"So he never died," Tyler says. "The whole thing was a trick. A lie Scott told some—the hunters who hurt your dad, he was protecting you. And really Stiles is in some safehouse somewhere."
"Training," Dylan says. "With Derek?"
"Of course," Tyler says, nodding.
"And like drop-in visits from Braeden, and Cora. Who are hooking up," Dylan adds, grinning. "Super casual, supposedly, but in actuality, leaking feelings everywhere."
"Derek's kind of wary about it, because Braeden's worked with hunters," Tyler says.
"And Cora basically hugs him and then flips him off about it," Dylan says. "And, and it turns out they've got all this history, you know? Like, that's why Braeden rescued Derek that time, or—"
"Or gave Lydia and Allison that mark," Tyler bursts out. "The, the bank logo. Leading Derek to Erica and Boyd. And Cora."
"Holy shit," Dylan says, eyes wide. "You're a fucking genius, you know that?"
Tyler goes hot, smiles down at nothing.
"I'm serious," Dylan says. "You're incredible. You should write the show, man, not—"
"I'd rather do this," Tyler says. "Just us, talking. No executive edits."
"Stiles wouldn't be okay with just leaving Beacon Hills," Dylan says, after some thought. "Leaving his dad alone. Exposed."
"It was his idea," Tyler says. "Trying to keep his kid out of trouble. Getting kidnapped really drilled into him how serious all of this is, he's not taking no for an answer. And he's not alone, he's got the pack. And Chris Argent."
"Ugh, Chris," Dylan says, making a face. "The hunters who hurt my Pops, they have a talk with him, right? 'Thanks for being such a brilliant double agent.' He's not," Dylan clarifies, at Tyler's raised eyebrows. "They just think he is. Because he's such a speciest dick."
"Speciest," Tyler says.
"He hates werewolves," Dylan says. "Not just the bad ones. He stuck a gun in Scott's face! Like three times. Shot him with arrows, shot you—He's not a good guy," Dylan concludes. "He's just not an outright psychopath."
"I think he's grown," Tyler says. "Over the seasons."
"Yeah, so has Peter," Dylan says. "He's still skeevy."
Tyler has to admit he has a point.
"So yeah, these hunters think he's like, this double agent," Dylan says. "So he is. But exactly the opposite way."
Tyler nods, impressed.
"But like, it's his first time kind of realizing," Dylan says. "What a bigot he is. And what that looks like, and, like—" Dylan shakes his head. "He actually—feels a little shitty, you know? And goes to Derek, like, apologetic. And Derek just, like, rebuffs him. 'Don't worry about it.' Because you can't just apologize for shit like that."
"'Sorry I made fun of your dead family,'" Tyler agrees.
"Exactly," Dylan says. "You have to earn it. So that's his character arc, you know? The road to self awareness. And actually being a good guy, not just being called one."
"I like it," Tyler says. "I bet JR would too."
"The fans," Dylan says. "Maybe." He snickers. "We should write fanfiction."
Tyler shrugs.
"But like, good," Dylan says. "Character-true. Like the show." He considers, corrects himself. "More than the show. No, like, random sexy make-out scenes all over the place."
"Except ironic ones," Tyler suggests. "Coach Finstock and Gerard Argent. Someone just pulls open a broom closet, there they are. Shuts it again seconds later."
"Definitely," Dylan says, cracking up. "Peter and Chris. Forbidden love."
"Speaking of which," Tyler says. "Have Ian and Colton texted you recently?"
"Why," Dylan says. His eyes go wide. "Again? I thought that was, like, way over."
"It could be a prank," Tyler admits. He pulls out his phone, taps into his Instagram messages. "You tell me."
"No, dude," Dylan says, after some examination. "That's real. No question."
"Yeah?" Tyler says.
"Are you kidding? Colton keeps joking," Dylan says. "Like, if it was a prank, he'd be selling it, right? Looking super serious, super invested. But it's not, so it's just the opposite. He's playing it down, trying not to freak out."
"Ah," Tyler says. He frowns. "What if someone's just sincere?"
"What do you mean?"
"What if things just are what they look like?" Tyler asks. "If people just—say they care, and mean it. No games."
"That would be weird," Dylan says. He looks at Tyler, goes pink. "Not bad weird," he expounds hurriedly. "Just hard to get used to."
"So if I—pretended I didn't love you," Tyler hypothesizes. "You'd know I do. Somehow."
"Probably not," Dylan admits. "It's kind of impossible to see outside yourself. No distance."
"So then—" Tyler starts, and sighs. "How do I prove it?"
"Marry me?" Dylan suggests. Tyler's heart jumps. "I'm kidding," Dylan adds, almost immediately. "Obviously."
Right, right. Just another joke.
It's fine.