Tyler's not answering any of Dylan's texts.
It's fine, it's fine, it's just—new. Normally he's on it like tan on Trump, but the dude's got a lot going on in his life, unlike some other people. Plus, didn't Dylan just tell him to give himself a break? He seriously can't win.
But the hours crawl by, without that distraction, that stimuli. Dylan watches five episodes of Friends, ha, remember when he had friends? There's some nostalgia for you. Real throwback moment.
He really doesn't remember the laugh track sounding so judgmental, either. That seems new.
Today's just full of new.
But whatever, it's cool. Ty's taking a day. Good for him. Seriously, Dylan needs to let the dude breathe. Texting every five seconds, could he be more of a desperate clinger? That's always so attractive.
Was Chandler always such an asshole?
Dylan can totally watch ten seasons of this, that's great. That'll take, lets see. Less time than he'll be here, probably. But won't that be an accomplishment? He can finally make a definitive call on the best Christmas episode, that'll be exciting. Dylan's life is a whirlwind of...
[Family Guy cut to the stupid slackjawed look on his face, the total immobility of him. The best part? It's a stop-motion video, but it looks like a still image.]
The video stalls, that little buffering circle thing (bufferer?) just going round and round. Frozen on Chandler, shirtless, kind of shower-damp, and that's—Dylan is a hollow shell of a man, okay, his dick's basically the only part of him that still gets excited about anything.
There's something weirdly masturbatory about getting off to Chandler, besides the obvious masturbatory element of it all, but hey, if that was the weirdest thing about Dylan, he'd be on top of the fucking world.
His brain is just starting to fuzz out nicely, his body almost edging close to happy, when the nurse comes in with lunch.
Dylan's ready to take a nice long bath in lye, it's fine. His skin's crawling, trying to get away from him, from this catastrophically humiliating situation.
The nurse is about sixty, and she kind of looks like Dylan's grandmother, if Dylan was biracial, and his grandmother could ever keep calm under these circumstances. Ha, cir-cum-stances.
Dylan hates himself, he really does.
She sets the tray down like it's nothing, like there's no elephant in the room, nope. Takes off at a totally normal, mind-numbingly glacial pace, seemingly unaffected.
Dylan may never jerk himself off again.
The fire in his face dies down eventually, or maybe he just gets used to it. Watching Friends is obviously impossible, now. Dylan's entire body is made out of cringes, just considering it.
That's cool, Dylan can just sleep. Just sleep for the rest of his life, just end it right here and now, why not?
There's a fun story to share with Tyler, that'll brighten his day. But nope; Dylan resists. Dude gets one day without being bugged by Dylan's everything. One day to veg out in his trailer, hang out with the cast, that friend of his, what's her name, Camille.
She's just twenty, Dylan finds, when he Googles her, out of some kind of semi-suicidal boredom. Has no twitter or facebook, just tumblr and snapchat.
Dylan is twenty-four. He's not supposed to feel so fucking old, suddenly.
He's never even downloaded Snapchat, like, just to check it out. There are too many things to keep up with, okay, you have to draw a line somewhere. And what, what? He sounds like someone's cartoon grandmother.
Some reporter once told Dylan he was big on Tumblr. Like, most reblogged, something. Like two years ago, like before Camille's parents even let her on the internet unsupervised, or before she could even have an account, don't you have to be thirteen, or something? And wow, Dylan is really winning the Not At All Petty Awards. Special guest: Tom Petty. Presented by Alex Pettyfer.
Camille Rodriguez, by the way, has done about fifteen short films with some feminist group. Dylan can't fault that; he'd have HeForShe'd up years ago if he was the kind of guy who made big political statements like that, and not the dude obsessively worrying that his totally bland public persona isn't kid-friendly enough, or something. So the cutest girl Dylan's ever seen also has about four times as much spine, that's fantastic. Dylan's coming out looking great in this comparison.
She's got two projects in development this year alone. That's, for the record, that's two more projects than Dylan's got going. Or ever will again, probably.
Dylan's starting to ferment in his own misery, so he goes back to his writings, his little Sterek stories. Derek and Stiles, Stiles and Derek. We're on a ship, trying not to fucking capsize, or just grab the wheel and steer right toward that iceberg, hit it head on.
Derek's got that perfect stubbly beard back. And glasses, don't worry about why. Some kind of—Orange Juice Moon, or aubergine wolfsbane, now he can't see for shit without them. Stiles has all kinds of sympathy, but also, is practicing all kinds of restraint not jizzing his pants every time he looks up from the, lets say the Argent grimoire he's studying, why not.
Maybe Derek's temporarily human. Sure, okay. And Stiles is trying to fix it, because Deaton's about as helpful as he usually is. Enigmatic all-knowing or possibly incredibly smug but completely faking it bastard, he wants Derek to find the strengths in his new-found humanity rather than being crippled by the weaknesses.
Sure, that sounds legit enough.
But Derek's not accepting that; the dude nearly dies once an episode anyway, and that's when he's got super-healing and the ability to punch through most walls. So he's understandably stressed.
"You're too stressed," Camille says, her hands on Tyler's shoulders, so supportive. And then they're kneading down, working out the knots with incredible precision. She's also a licensed massage therapist, did you know that? Yeah, it's listed in the 'skills' section of her resume, somewhere between kung fu fighting and competitive poker. And you poor thing, you've been working so hard. Speaking of hard, you know, that happens. My massages feel good, it's totally natural. Don't even worry about it.
Dylan's brain is determined to destroy him.
So he's human, Dylan thinks, tries to think. Human, and vulnerable, and Stiles—
Camille's pretty mouth on Tyler's, on Tyler's dick, "Oh, this? This is just the VIP package. Ha, get it? Package."
"You're so funny," Tyler says. "So much funnier than Dylan."
Her mouth curling, and Tyler spasms, says, "You're so—you feel so—"
That's when all sound devolves into some porn soundtrack.
"He doesn't even wonder why I'm so tired all the time," Tyler laughs against her throat, after. "All this exercise, with you. He thinks we're running."
"What a fucking idiot," Camille says. She's not even a little bit winded; another thing on her list of skills is Olympic Gymnast. You don't even wanna know how bendy.
"We should make a movie," Tyler says. "You and me. Oh, wait. We're already making a movie."
"Another movie," Camille says. "Where we're the hottest new couple, at no risk to our careers. We'll be Fred Astaire and whoever Fred Astaire did all those movies with, we'll be legends."
"Imagine a feminist remembering the dude's name and not the chick's," Tyler says. "Dylan can't even come up with believable dialogue anymore. Imagine him trying to write a real movie."
"Who cares about Dylan," Camille says. She's so cute Dylan's stomach hurts, little and perky and kind of face-warping into Alessia Cara, now that Dylan thinks about it. "Let's have sex again."
"Good point," Tyler says.
Dylan hasn't vomited in a while.
Today's all about making up for that.
Head kind of light, everything kind of weird and off-kilter, Dylan googles "tyler hoechlin camille rodriguez," because of course he does. And it's too easy: all there, just waiting. There's a million paparazzi photos, they're holding hands. Next one they're even closer. She's practically glued to his side, he's leaning a little against her. Her arm around him for the next few, they're walking.
But Dylan keeps going back to the third one. They're not touching, but it's the way Tyler's looking at her. He looks lost. Looks like he's just been kissed into another dimension.
And it's not even a surprise, it shouldn't be. Wouldn't be if Dylan wasn't such an idiot. Actually thinking—actually believing, what? That such a ridiculously self-sacrificing guy actually exists, that he'd sacrifice it all for Dylan. For this Dylan, invalid Dylan, Dylan who's obviously completely delusional.
Maybe his heart does something funny, maybe his whole brain changes shape with the realization, but suddenly machines are beeping and people are rushing in, and won't this be fun.
And he's fine, he's fine he's fine he's fine, get a grip, Dyl. So what was the plan, anyway? Lean on him, rely on him? Get so comfortable with him you forget what a collapsing shitshow the rest of your life is, that's a stellar plan. Really, it's incredible that didn't work out.
Medical babble all around him, and a growing sense of numbness, spreading through him.
He stops listening, or maybe everything just stops making a sound.
Posey's his emergency contact, it turns out. He calls Hoechlin but can't reach him. Dylan's done being surprised.
"Don't, don't," he says. Of course his stupid voice makes him sound like a bride who's been left at the altar, and not the actually totally emotionless robot he is right now. "He's—There's this friend of his, Camille. Well actually they're a little more than friends."
"He wouldn't," Posey says. "Hoechlin? The guy's ready to marry you. He acts like you're already married."
"I said don't, for fucks sake," Dylan says, fake-smiling so hard his eyes water. "There's pictures."
"Show me," Posey says. "I wanna see for myself."
"You don't," Dylan says, but he finds them anyway.
"It's just holding hands," Posey says, but he doesn't sound sure. And whatever, whatever. So what if they are, so what if—
"Let him have this," Camille says. Standing in front of Dylan's bed, looking so sincere, selfless. "If you care about him at all."
"Not that I need your permission," Tyler points out.
So what, so what. So what if Dylan just becomes a heroin addict? There, there's a much more acceptable celebrity malady. So much less pathetic than your brain just turning on you, or the revelation that you're so fucking narcissistic, you're unbearable.
"I'll talk to him," Posey says. "Find out. It's gonna be nothing."
"He's not picking up the," Dylan starts, and finds he can't speak over the lump in his throat. Kurt Cobain, everybody liked him. Corey Monteith, so tragic. They didn't physically repulse everyone in their lives, they were these big, romantic figures—and Dylan can't even tolerate that bullshit train of thought for as long as it's stalled in the station. He's not minimizing really fucking miserable people's pain to elevate his own crap, that's insane.
Maybe he's just insane.
"Hey," Posey says. He looks almost angry, but not at Dylan. "It's not gonna be true, okay? And if it is, fuck him. You could have a thousand people hotter than him."
Dylan doesn't even bother reacting to that.
"You could have anyone," Posey says. Leaning close, his arm around Dylan, Dylan's fighting not to fucking cry. "Anything. You're the only thing that gets in your way."
Yeah.
Yeah, that's about right.
If not for Dylan, Dylan'd be the fucking president.
"How'd you get out of shooting," Dylan says. His head's on Posey's chest, they're watching the ceiling. Every so often, the new machine thing the doctors added goes beep, then shuts up for like ten minutes. Then goes beep again.
"I told Jeff to go fuck himself," Posey says.
"You didn't," Dylan says, laughing. Posey doesn't say anything. Dylan swerves his head up and around, looks at him. "You didn't. What'd he do?"
"I don't know," Posey says. "I just left. I haven't called him, or anything." He lets out an aggravated huff. "I know his job's hard, I know we need to have everything done, like, yesterday, but I can't—Fucking push it off, it doesn't matter. Family emergency, asshole."
And the emergency's Dylan.
The family's Dylan.
He really is crying now.
"What," Posey says. Hands on Dylan's shoulder, his side. "Forget Hoechlin, he's a tool."
"It's not," Dylan says. "Just." He shakes his head. More tears spill down. Weird trajectory, too, because he's got his face at a weird angle. Tears are going down to his ears, up his nose and shit. He sniffs, tries to pull himself at least a little bit together. "I missed you."
"I know," Posey says seriously. "I mean, me too. Work is bullshit without you." His arm tucks around Dylan, holds him close. "So's everything else."
"I thought—" Dylan flushes. He feels like an idiot. "I thought you were glad for the excuse. To get away, you know?"
"Don't be an idiot," Posey says. "I fucking love you. You think I wanna pretend to be a nudist werewolf rather than be here?"
"Nudist," Dylan snickers.
"Here's every scene, every single Scott scene this season, I'm serious. You ready? Okay, here goes."
Dylan waits.
"And that was every scene," Posey says.
"What?"
"He's the new Derek," Posey says. "Standing around glaring at things. Without Stiles? It's awful."
"Your pack," Dylan says. "You're the true alpha."
"Please, that's not dark enough," Posey says. "Isaac got all vengeance and murder-happy, with losing Allison, and now Stiles. Like, kill them before they kill us. And obviously Scott's still 'We don't kill people!' so the pack splintered. Most of them went darkside, with him and Peter."
"Star Wars reference," Dylan says, a little stunned. "You watched it?"
"Only the new one," Posey says.
"And..." Dylan says, impatiently.
"I didn't hate it," Posey says.
"I'm counting that as a win, no takebacks," Dylan says triumphantly. "And someday you'll watch the others, and you'll understand."
"Uh huh," Posey says.
"Not the prequels," Dylan corrects himself. "Oh god. Not the prequels. But the others."
"Maybe," Posey says doubtfully.
"Or maybe you'd like them, who knows," Dylan says. "Weirdo."
"I just don't get it, okay," Posey says. "Like, everyone admits it's super racist. And the 'Noooo' after the whole 'I'm your father' thing, seriously? It's like a joke."
"You did watch them," Dylan says.
"I watched the CinemaSins," Posey says.
"Dude," Dylan says. "The whole point of that is to make fun of the shitty parts. He makes the Dark Knight look stupid, Hoechlin hates it."
Somehow they're back around to Hoechlin again.
"I really don't think he'd cheat on you," Posey says. His hand's kind of playing through Dylan's hair. It feels nice. "I really don't."
"Can we just not," Dylan says.
"I'm just saying, don't blow this up before you know for sure."
"Sure," Dylan says, just so Posey'll drop it.
"Come back to the show," Posey says softly, after a couple minutes silence. "It sucks without you."
"Yeah," Dylan mutters. "I'm sure Jeff's really clamoring—"
"Fuck Jeff," Posey says. "Hard. With a Tabasco dildo. We'll go over his head if we have to. MTV wants you back, they can make him."
"Can't make him write me lines," Dylan says. "I'll be the new Derek, just—shirtless all the time, looking lost. Or just full-on naked."
"I already told you, Scott's the new Derek," Posey says. "Someone's gotta have a line. Besides, he loves writing for you."
"Just a million Stalia sex scenes," Dylan says.
"No, man," Posey says. "Malia's with Isaac now. It's like the new fan favorite. They're both, like, majorly violent. And kind of broken. But sweet together."
"Major Lee Violent," Dylan says, saluting. "Oh. Oh, man. Guess what happened today."
"Um," Posey says, but Dylan cuts in, "So I'm just innocently jerking off, right? Really starting to get somewhere. And then the door opens, and this nurse comes in, with lunch. And I just kind of freeze, like maybe if I don't move I'll be invisible, like, blend in with the furniture. And she sets down the tray, right, and it kind of vibrates the bed, and I just—come. Everywhere."
"Oh shit," Posey says, laughing, and Dylan says, kind of choking in silent laughter, eyes watering, "And she's just staring at me, like, eyes probably popping out of her head, but behind this really serene smile. And she looks just like, literally looks exactly like my grandmother."
"I can't," Posey says, gasping. "I can't, that's—My dick would never recover."
"I know, right?" Dylan says, and they both crack up, falling all over each other, and it's crazy. It's crazy.
Dylan doesn't think he's ever been so happy in his whole life.