"Is it true?" Posey says, scaring the shit out of Tyler right off the bat.

"Is what true," he says warily. Breathing, just breathing. He's been on edge all day, stuck at work without his phone, without any connection to Dylan at all.

"You," Posey says. "And Camille Rodriguez." His eyes are intense, warning. "Don't lie to me."

"Me and," Tyler says blankly. "Together?"

"Yes or no," Posey says, tense.

"No!" Tyler says. "Of course—of course no. Is someone saying—Does Dylan think—?"

"There's pictures," Posey says. "You're really close."

"Yeah, we're really close," Tyler says, a little defensively. Posey looks at him. "Not like that. What pictures," he says. He's trying not to lean away. Show weakness, or—He doesn't know what he's trying to do.

"We're just friends," he says. "We're just friends."

"You were holding her hand," Posey says.

"No I wasn't," Tyler says.

"I saw the pictures," Posey says.

"Then they're fake," Tyler says, annoyed. "I'm not with her. I just talk to her. I barely even do that, anymore."

"Gimme a minute," Posey says, and goes back into Dylan's room. He comes out with Dylan's laptop. "That's fake?

"That's not..." Tyler says, and looks. At him and Camille, holding hands, Camille all against his side, him leaning against her. It really does look like— "Dylan's seen this?"

"You motherfucker," Posey says, lunging at him; Tyler ducks, backs away and away, hands up like a shield.

"It's not," he says. "We're not—There isn't a we. I don't know what this is, but it doesn't mean anything."

"But it's real," Posey says. "It's not an edit. You just don't remember."

"Does it matter?" Tyler asks. "I'm not cheating on him. My whole life is about Dylan. How does that even make sense? As if I'd throw it all away for some—I barely even know her."

"You said you were close," Posey says. "Really close."

"I'm not really close with anyone, these days," Tyler says testily. "Except Dylan. I'm here every day, every second I can be here. I don't do anything else."

"You don't sound real thrilled about it," Posey says.

"Yeah, well maybe I'm not!" Tyler says. "Right now," he adds, but the damage is done; Posey's looking at him like he just killed a puppy. "Maybe I just don't like being interrogated," he says, calmer. "I didn't do anything wrong. I can't help what it looks like."

"I tried calling you," Posey says. "Four times. You didn't answer."

"I couldn't," Tyler says.

"So I couldn't tell you he had a heart attack," Posey says.

Tyler freezes solid.

He can't breathe at all, for the longest time. Can't see, can't think.

"Why the hell," he says, his face and chest on fire, eyes prickling with tears, "didn't you lead with that?"

"Wasn't sure you'd care," Posey says.

"Wasn't sure I'd," Tyler says, and shakes his head, scrubs at his eyes. "He's in the hospital. Under constant surveillance. How could this happen?"

"Stress," Posey says.

"Stress," Tyler says. "Like what." His eyes catch on the laptop, those stupid photos. "Tell me it wasn't—Not over me. Tell me this wasn't about me."

"I'm sorry," Posey says.

"I'll quit," Tyler decides. "I'll—That's it, I'm done. Let them fucking sue."

"What are you talking about?" Posey says.

"Harvest," Tyler says. "This idiotic clusterfuck of a movie, it's never-ending. And they'll sue me if I don't finish it, even though it never seems to fucking finish. How did you get out of work?" he demands.

"I told Jeff to go fuck himself," Posey says.

"I should try that," Tyler says. He covers his face, leans hard against his palm. "Jesus fucking Christ. I wanna stop this ride. Get him off."

It's a testament to the seriousness of the situation that Posey isn't in tears at the accidental pun.

"Help me convince him I didn't do this," Tyler says. "I've—He won't believe me, he never believes me. It's this thing in his head, it's trying to convince him none of us give a shit."

"You love him?" Posey asks.

"You have no idea," Tyler says heavily.

"Then tell him," Posey says. "All the time."

"Don't you think I've tried that?" Tyler says, incredulous. "He thinks I'm lying. To myself, even. Or that it doesn't matter, because I'll get sick of him anyway."

"We could do an intervention," Posey suggests. "Not just us. Holland, and, can you get Linden here? And Colton, definitely. I'll do Colton. Maybe even his parents—"

"Not his parents," Tyler says. "He's pretty much decided that if his parents find out, the world will end."

"So we show him it won't," Posey says. "It's like with you, or thinking I couldn't wait to get away. It's not true."

"We don't know that," Tyler says. "I've never met them, have you?"

"Is this the part of the movie where we find out his parents never existed?" Posey says. "They're supportive, right? How many times has he said that?"

"Too many," Tyler says. "We're not going behind his back on this."

It's almost theater; Tyler walking into Dylan's room like everything's fine, like that talk never happened, like he's just back from work. There's a new machine, beeping. Tyler doesn't know what it means.

He hates that.

"Have you seen my phone?" he says, uber-casually. "I've been looking for it all day."

"Oh," Dylan says. There's red around his eyes, he's been crying. Tyler's chest tightens. "Really?"

"Yeah, really," Tyler says. He's almost angry. More at himself than anyone else, but he can't help the tightness in his voice. "What, you think I'd just stop texting you for a day? Just out of the blue."

"I told you to take a day," Dylan says.

"And Jackie keeps telling me to do the same fucking scene forty times, but apparently I can't get that right, either," Tyler says, and sits by him. Nods at the new machine. "What's that?"

"Some beepy thing," Dylan says vaguely.

"Wouldn't have guessed." Tyler tries for a grin, can't manage it.

"I don't know, man," Dylan says. He's apologetic, too apologetic. Tyler can't stomach it. "I don't know what the fuck's going on with my body. Or my mind. It's just all going to shit."

"Don't say that," Tyler says.

"Why not?" Dylan challenges. "It's true. This is like, a breakdown in every sector, simultaneously. I should just go down to the DMV, tick yes for donor, and wait to be chopped for parts."

"That's not funny," Tyler says. He means to say it kindly, means a lot of things, but the thought digs down somewhere deep, doesn't let up. And Tyler's breathing, he's focusing on breathing, because if he doesn't, he's gonna forget how.

"The last straw," Dylan says. "I'm not even funny anymore."

Tyler exhales sharp. "You know that's not what I meant."

His breaths keep threatening to catch in his throat.

"What can I do," Tyler tries. He's breathing, Dylan's breathing. Everything else is immaterial. "To make things better. Make you feel better."

"Would that you could, man," Dylan says. "But this isn't a you thing. This is a me thing."

"It isn't," Tyler says. "It's just a sickness. It's not who you are."

"Keep telling yourself that," Dylan says.

It was a small heart attack, Dylan's doctor says. As if that's possible. As if there's anything small about a heart attack when the man having it is twenty-four.

He's supposed to practice de-stressing techniques. Breathing, affirmations. Being present in the moment. Going to his happy place, when being present is too stressful.

Dylan thinks the whole thing is a joke.

Tyler finds his phone under the bed.

"I texted you," Dylan says. "A bunch of times. I didn't hear it."

"I turn it off as soon as I get here," Tyler says. "I barely get to see you as it is. I don't want any interruptions."

"Oh," Dylan says. Tyler comes in close, kisses him, then again, softer, slower. Dylan's fingers on his throat, his jaw.

"What's up with your jaw?" Dylan says. "You're clenching it."

"Just a little—" Tyler's mouth meets Dylan's again. "Mad at myself, I guess. Should've... Oh, that's nice."

Dylan's rubbing Tyler's shoulder, the back of his neck, all down his spine. Smoothing heat into his weary bones.

"Should've checked for my phone," Tyler manages. He stretches a little, leans into the touch. "Could've avoided—mmmm. Avoided all of this mess."

Dylan's hands under his shirt, now, Tyler's starting to unravel. And then he's kissing Tyler again, his mouth dragging against Tyler's mouth, catching on his lower lip. Tyler's head goes back, and Dylan's goes down, down his throat, all around his collarbone, and lower. Hands on the edges of Tyler's shirt, pulling it up and over, and Tyler's regretting ever leaving this room, ever...

"I hated," Tyler breathes, Dylan's mouth in places he can barely speak through, "hated work today. Not being able to text you. Was like I couldn't—breathe right, or—couldn't relax. Needed to know how you—Oh, oh. Oh. How you were doing. And just—talk to you."

"You taste weird," Dylan says, which takes Tyler out of it, just a little.

"Weird how," Tyler says.

"I don't know," Dylan says, his voice odd. "Are you using a different soap? Or—"

"I'm not cheating with some girl I barely know, if that's what you're asking," Tyler says, before he can stop himself.

"Tyler showed you the pictures," Dylan says.

"I don't even remember that day," Tyler says. "Or holding her hand, any of it."

"Must've been in a fugue state," Dylan says. "This is where you realize you're Brad Pitt as well as Edward Norton."

"Funny," Tyler says, but he's not laughing. "I guess it's too much to ask you to trust me."

"Picture's worth a thousand words," Dylan says.

"Yeah, and most of them are bullshit," Tyler says. "You know what we do. You know how easy it is to make things look like something they're not."

"Forget it," Dylan says, reaching for him again. "Just forget it, okay?"

But the moment's gone, and Tyler's pulled back, and he's cold. He pulls his shirt back on, scrubs at his mouth.

Breathes, breathes, breathes.

"Maybe you should just ask her," Dylan says. He's lying on his stomach, head in his hands, voice low, muffled. "What you were doing. See if she remembers any better."

"Yeah," Tyler says, nodding. He's been reading some side, trying to read some side. As if he can actually go back to work, after this, after a day like this. "Yeah, I will. That's exactly what I'll do."

Some guy Tyler doesn't know picks up, says, ''Who's this?"

His accent's so Scottish it sounds like a joke. Maybe it is.

"Um," says Tyler. "Tyler. Hoechlin? Is Camille—"

"Pretty boy," the guy says. "Anything you wanna tell me, pretty boy?"

"No," Tyler says.

"There's some pretty pictures," the guy says. "You and my girl. Real fookin' sweet."

Tyler swallows.

"Give me the phone, Dave," Camille shouts, and then she says, "Hi. Sorry about him. Remember when I said I fall in love with assholes, who seem really sweet at first? Case in fucking point," she says, seemingly to Dave as much as Tyler. "Can you believe I used to think jealousy was cute? Turns out it's just weird and possessive," she calls throughout the land.

"Right," Tyler says. "Forget it, I'll just—"

"No, no," Camille says. "What is it? Is Dylan okay? Oh!" she squeals, beside herself. "Did you do it? What'd he say?"

"You're on speaker," Tyler says, regretting almost all of his life choices.

"Oh, shit," Camille says. "Sorry. Sorry sorry sorry."

Dylan's looking at Tyler like he's never seen him before.

"Those pictures," Tyler says, kind of wanting to cry, honestly, "what were we doing? I don't remember it. Like, any of it."

"Oh," Camille says. Tyler can hear her rolling her eyes. "This is the biggest joke, are you ready? You know that third picture? The one where we look so fucking—well—"

Tyler's jaw is basically one solid cement block.

"You were gonna drive to the hospital yourself," Camille says. "You could barely walk, dude, it was like you'd been hit over the head. Once you heard what happened to him."

Oh.

Oh, that day.

"So yeah, I basically saved your life," Camille says. "And for the record? You are like forty. So not my type. No offense. So, yeah. Anything else?"

"No," Tyler says, manually dragging his jaw into place, keeping his hand there. "Thanks so much."

"Well don't I look like an asshole," Dylan says softly.

"You're not," Tyler says. His arms around Dylan, he's just breathing. Just feeling their breaths syncing, rising and falling, steady, safe. They're gonna be okay. It's been resolved. That's all that matters. "You're not an asshole. I'd be jealous too. If I thought—"

"Stop making excuses," Dylan says. "Seriously. I'm not—"

His breaths shudder, his voice breaks.

"There's something seriously wrong with me," he says. He sounds... more than lost, he sounds scared. Tyler holds him, holds him, tries to find some combination of words he might believe. "I mean, no shit, Sherlock, right, but—I'm kind of just realizing it. Like in a serious way, you know? How fucking broken I am."

"Stop," Tyler says. He hates this, hates when Dylan gets like this. Up on some ledge, and Tyler can't talk him down. Can't do anything.

"You're not broken," he says, pointlessly, uselessly. "You're not anything. You're gonna be okay."

"No, man," Dylan says. "Like, maybe I should be on something. Meds, or—"

Tyler breathes, breathes, breathes. "Did Dr. Adams say something?"

"Um," Dylan says. "Yeah? I'm kind of—already on something? Or—more than one."

"Yeah?" Tyler says. He doesn't know how to feel, or what he's feeling. Maybe he's relieved. Maybe it'll work. Maybe that's all Dylan's needed, all this time.

Maybe he's scared to death it'll just make everything worse.

"Effexor," Dylan says. "And some—re-something, for OCD. Resperdal? Respiritol? Something respiratory."

"You don't have," Tyler starts, but what does he know? What the fuck does he know? With all his extensive medical knowledge, his negative seven degrees. "Is it helping?"

"I don't know," Dylan says. "No one really sees results this early."

"Oh," Tyler says. Right, yeah. Of course they don't.

"I wanna get better," Dylan says. Low, raw. Tyler hates this. This hopelessness, this helplessness. "I don't wanna be like this," Dylan says. He sniffs. "Put you through this."

Tyler rolls closer, crosses his arms over him, hands on his shoulder, his chest. Anchoring, maybe, or maybe just trying to breathe. Keep some kind of control over all of this, some balance.

"Everything's gonna be fine," he says.