Time slows to a crawl, or seems to, the hospital walls closing in, and then Camille texts:

Dude they're threatening to sue

? Tyler sends back

Stevens/Richter, Camille says. Rumor is they're coming after you. For holding up production

They're off schedule over budget you're an easy target

Tyler stares down at his phone, mind whirring.

Then he calls his manager.

It's true. It's true. There's an ultimatum: come back to set and get everything right on the first take, or...

"Sued for how much?" Tyler asks, thinking—he's comfortable, more than comfortable. He can pay off a week of some indie movie budget if he has to, if that's what it takes to get them off his back.

And then his manager tells him the number, and he realizes how in over his head he is.

"Dylan could afford it," his manager points out. "If he needs you bad enough to blow up your career, let him pay for it."

"I'm not the fucking hired help," Tyler says, as calmly as he can. More and more, he's finding his jaw locked, clenched tight. He rubs at it, says, quieter, "I'm not going to hit him with a bill. What if I... Can't I fight it? I did my job."

It's ridiculous that this can even happen. Like it's his fault this movie's months behind its production schedule, every new batch of re-writes extending and extending it. But Tyler needs a fucking week to be there for his family? That must be the problem. Sure.

"This is all reshoots," he explains. "Alternative endings. Couldn't I—"

"You could," his manager says, and then he tells Tyler that number.

It's—it's not fine, it's not. How Dylan takes it as rejection when that's the furthest thing from the truth, when Tyler wants to be here with him, and he knows Posey does too. It's just that Teen Wolf's budget is a hell of a lot higher than Harvest's.

"I love you," he tries, and Dylan says, "Sure," and closes his eyes.

Tyler texts Dylan nonstop from the makeup chair, barely saying two words to India, or looking up from the screen. He's got his phone out as soon as the director calls cut. Takes off the second he's no longer needed, heads right back to the hospital.

Dylan's on solids, now, a bland hospital-supplied diet, and the nausea comes back and stays. Tyler stocks up on energy bars, scentless, and near tasteless, but that doesn't matter. It doesn't matter. Tyler's not gonna eat real food in front of him, wolf down a pizza and fries out of some selfish craving while the fumes only make Dylan sicker.

He eats at work. Works out at work, makes those running scenes count. He's not going to the gym anymore, and it's stupid, but he feels off, without it. Or maybe it's just all of this, adding up.

"You should have said something about the nausea," Dr Adams says, when Dylan's sick anyway, again and again, eyes streaming, croaking an endless string of apologies, Sorry, sorry, sorry. "How long has this been going on?"

And of course he should've. Of course he should've, why didn't he? All this time, Dylan's doctor had the wrong information, and Tyler could've set him right. All this time, he's been focusing on some—eating disorder, some problem which isn't even the problem, doing nothing for the real one.

It's such an obvious mistake, Tyler can't actually believe himself. Dylan's trying so hard to be fine, fine, fine, to be funny, to throw Tyler off, make him think Dylan's okay, but he isn't. He's sick twice in the same hour, trembling, pale. And he doesn't have to be—Dr. Adams prescribes medicines, once he knows, anti-nausea drugs. He could've been feeling better days ago, but Tyler just...

Dropped the ball, he's losing it. Losing focus. Snapping at work, wearing thin here, turning into someone he's not sure he can stand.

And that hurts Dylan too, Tyler being too prepared for another humorless joke. Anticipating it, and tensing up waiting for it, and even—he's ashamed of it, but—baiting Dylan into it, sometimes. C'mon, D, tell us how you really feel. How much of a liar I am.

It's almost a relief, going to work, even if that's just one more place to try to play calm, and fail. India's sympathetic, and then she's curt, and Tyler should apologize, make things right, but he's too busy making sure Dylan isn't dying.

Camille puts her hands up, surrenders, the first time Tyler swears at her. She pats his shoulder, leaves him alone.

And he is, he is alone. As much as he's with Dylan, Dylan's not—he can't be expected to be himself, now, to be easy to be with. It's unfair of Tyler to expect that. To demand that, and be disappointed when Dylan's voice goes quiet again, or too sharp, when he stops talking at all.

But it is lonely, lonelier than Tyler ever thought being with Dylan could be. Having him right there, and so distant, untouchable.

You can't just give up when things get a little difficult. You can't just turn around, turn your back on the person you love because you're selfish, because you're tensing and tensing and you don't know how to stop.

If Tyler was paranoid, insecure, if his mind was conspiring against him, trying to kill him, and Dylan walked out on him—that's inexcusable. That wouldn't happen. Dylan would be there, he'd be—still trying, a week later, still joking around, pleading, trying to bring Tyler back. A month later, a year. Dylan doesn't give up on the people he loves. He's just—fighting the Nogitsune, this evil voice in his head telling him his friends don't need him, and his parents can't know, and everything he thinks he knows about Tyler's feelings is a trick. It's distorted reality, and he's trapped in it, and what's Tyler doing? Taking it personally. Making it worse. Leaving Dylan alone, for hours at a time, to be tortured by it.

Tyler's tired, but that doesn't matter. That doesn't matter.

He'll sleep when the evil thing's dead.

Shooting runs long. It's dark when he gets back to the hospital. Dylan's curled on his side, facing the door; he was waiting.

"I'm sorry," Tyler says, defeated; he didn't do this, couldn't have prevented it, but that doesn't matter. Dylan was waiting, he was waiting alone. Tyler should've been here.

"Don't be," Dylan says, and turns over, facing away.

It comes too fast, unstoppable; some impossible misery wells up in him, clogs up his throat, his nose. Tears streak down Tyler's face, his shoulders shuddering, and he's covering his face, smearing tears around trying to get a hold of himself, and Dylan alerts somehow, turns back, freezes.

"Tyler," he says, eyes wide.

Tyler shakes his head, inhales sharp. This can't be happening, he can't be—He thought he was stronger than this.

"Ty," Dylan says, softer.

"I'm just tired," Tyler says, not looking at him. Pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, rubbing his raw eyes. "I'm just a little tired."

"Just come here, okay?" Dylan asks, pats the mattress, so of course Tyler comes, sits down, too heavily. Dylan reaches out, touches him, light, on the arm, on the shoulder, mutters, "Don't, don't, don't..."

"I know," Tyler says, "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Dylan says, palm warm on Tyler's shoulder, the knots in his back. "You don't have to be superhuman in real life," Dylan says. "That's not possible. That's not possible."

Tyler's cotton-headed, unsteady, but this isn't—this is all backwards. He needs to be the strong one. Be there for Dylan. Not—Dylan's got enough to deal with without this, without Tyler breaking down like this.

"Hey," Dylan says, his hand trailing up and down Tyler's side, his chest. Warmth soaking through Tyler's skin, he missed this.

"I'm not your patient," Dylan says. "Or a kid. You're allowed to be upset in front of me. Don't keep that to yourself, Ty. I don't want you to."

And Tyler's tired, he's tired, he lies down. Dylan close behind him, an arm over his chest, a good, steady weight.

"You've been amazing," Dylan says, "holding out for this long, I swear. And I love you—"

And Tyler breaks, breaks down in Dylan's arms, jaw shuddering, Dylan holding him, holding him together, saying, "It's okay, it's okay, it's okay."

And it is, somehow.

There's more touch, after that, Dylan's hands on Tyler all the time. Tyler didn't realize it, but he's been holding back, thinking he's here to be supportive, not some—horndog, some needy frat boy. He didn't think how Dylan would see it, didn't think it would feel like proof that Tyler doesn't like him like that, anymore, that he's turned off by all of this. Didn't realize that's the only reason Dylan was pulling back too, keeping his hands to himself, thinking this sickness makes him untouchable. And it was only Tyler giving in, losing control, waking up with Dylan behind him, pressing into him, and reciprocating without even thinking about it, that put them back the way they should have been, all this time. Dylan losing it with just a few simple touches, Tyler's mouth on his throat, hands in his hair, and Tyler coming apart just feeling Dylan shudder like that, head tipping back, breath catching.

The hospital bed wasn't made for this, for two people stretched out, spent. Tyler's on his side, watching Dylan's breaths slow, the flush in his cheeks, the sleepy grin. Looking up at Tyler through his eyelashes, blushing brighter, catching Tyler's eyes on him, squirming closer. Heat slinking through Tyler again, Dylan catching the change, smirking.

Time goes a lot faster, after that.