"Are taste hallucinations a thing?" Dylan asks.
"Do you think they're a thing?" Dr. Martin says. There's a too-obvious joke: Doc Martin. And she's got reddish hair, like Lydia. Holland. Whatever.
"Breakfast tasted kinda weird," Dylan says. "Like, too salty. Like someone just dumped the whole shaker in."
"Maybe someone dumped the whole shaker in," Dr. Martin says.
"Yeah, maybe," Dylan says. "Except, it wasn't just one thing. Like, the syrup was salty." There were two little individually sealed cuboid cups of the stuff. Both tasted equally like ass.
So did everything else.
"You're taking Effexor, right?"
"Yeah," Dylan says. "Why?"
"Altered sense of taste could be a side effect of Effexor," Dr. Martin says.
Other than the red hair, she looks nothing like Lydia. Or Holland. Even the red hair's a different kind of red. Like fake red. But not like punk fake red, but like—Mad Men lady, Christina something, that red. But not really, honestly, the more Dylan looks at it. Mostly it just looks like itself.
"Where did you just go?" Dr. Martin asks.
"What? Nowhere." Dylan grips the arms of his bed instinctively, like he's making sure.
"In your head," Dr. Martin says. "Do you have trouble staying in the moment?"
"What moment," Dylan says. "There isn't a moment. There's just—time."
"Does the thought of potential side effects worry you?" Dr. Martin asks.
"Should it?" Dylan asks. What is this, the question game? The doc has glasses. He'd have cast someone without glasses. Less of a cliché.
Or maybe that's not casting, no. That's more of a wardrobe issue. Really easy fix, actually.
Some director he'd be. Firing people for wearing glasses, that's intelligent.
Maybe he'd be more intelligent if he wore glasses.
"What do you do when something worries you?" Dr. Martin asks.
"Um," Dylan says.
The thing is, he doesn't worry. No, he pointedly doesn't worry at all. Any thoughts about the past, or the present, or the future are prone to simultaneously humiliate and depress him into a semi-suicidal funk, so he just tries not to think. TV, why not watch some TV? Or a movie, or that spot on the wall. Is it a bug, or just dirt? Who knows? Let's watch and see.
"Not much," Dylan says.
It's not exactly salt, Dylan decides. It's, like, briny. Kind of sour, kind of sharp.
Maybe he's just having a stroke.
It really occupies a lot of his day, until he tries to stand and realizes gravity no longer applies to him.
"I feel like I'm fucking walking on the moon," he tells Posey. "When I'm... you know, when I'm walking."
"Weird!" Posey says, impressed. "Should I—call someone?"
"Call Michael Jackson," Dylan says. "Because this is the real moonwalking, right here."
"Yeah, I'll get right on that," Posey says. "You want me to maybe, uh, CC anyone else?"
"Nah," Dylan says. "It's probably nothing."
Or reality as he knows it is breaking down, revealing the Matrix behind it. Everything is code, and gravity is an illusion.
He googles his meds; turns out Respiridone is an anti-psychotic.
Well, it's always good to know where you stand. Especially now that it's more like floating.
"Don't anti-psychotics make non-psychotic people psychotic?" he tells the lovely Doc Marten. Martin. Whatever.
"Are you concerned about your medication?" Dr. Martin asks.
"Should I be?" Two can play at this game. Dylan watched that one episode of Whose Line, he's prepped and ready to go.
He'll do a fucking hoedown, if the moment calls for it.
Poor Dylan's got a broken brain but Effexor protects him
If only all these lovely doctors knew how it affects him
He googled and he found
To keep him safe and sound
It'll screw up all his senses and stop him getting erections
Everyone, in unison: Stop him getting erections!
Dylan O'Brien, everybody.
In fact, let's go for round two.
Didn't really feel psychotic, but then maybe that's the point
Tell him it's OCD and dose him before he blows up the joint!
Now he's floating on cloud nine
Like he's done a thousand lines
He can't help his reputation but he'd hate to disappoint
Everyone: He'd hate to disappoint!
Except point and disappoint don't really rhyme, do they. Well then, how about—
"Dylan," Dr. Martin says. "No. Anti-psychotics have a number of uses. Respiridone has been shown to be helpful in treating OCD."
"I don't even have OCD," Dylan says. "I'm not organizing my meals by color, I don't have to jerk off a specific number of times for it to be right."
"No obsessive thoughts?" Dr. Martin asks.
"Define obsessive," Dylan says. "And even if I do, I don't have the C. Maybe I have OD—look at that, all those people on the internet were sort of right—but not OCD. No compulsive actions."
"You don't compulsively try to redirect worrying conversations and thoughts with humor?" Dr. Martin asks.
"Come on," Dylan says. "Who doesn't do that. No one wants to actually take shit seriously, that's how people end up—"
"Depressed?" Dr. Martin asks.
Dylan looks at her. Balks. "That's not—" he says, but he hits a blank. "So what," he says. "Stop being funny? Lose my one redeeming characteristic, that's great advice."
"Is that really how you feel?" Dr. Martin says. "That being funny is all you have to offer?"
"Just a second," Dylan says, and barricades the bathroom door with his foot, and heaves over his toilet. His toilet, he's claimed this toilet, he's the Christopher Columbus of this toilet. It's here, he's here, so it must be his. Time to completely destroy it.
Except nothing comes.
He dry-heaves for a little while, hacks up some thick spit, but that's it. Comes back shamefaced.
New low: now he can't even vomit properly.
"Where did you just go," Dr. Martin says.
"Um," Dylan says. "The bathroom? Did you miss that?"
"In your mind," Dr. Martin says. "Something triggered you, didn't it."
"Triggered me," Dylan says, scoffing. "I'm not a gun."
"That's funny," Dr. Martin says, completely humorlessly. "What does it mean to you to be funny? Who would you be if you weren't funny?"
"The Biggest Loser," Dylan says. "Like, an award from Jillian Michaels, everything. I should try it."
"What if you did?" Dr. Martin says.
What if he did? It's a suicidal suggestion. Dylan's bad enough company these days as it is. He doesn't know what's keeping Tyler coming back, either of them, honestly. A little bit of entertainment's the least Dylan can do.
Literally the least, but also... also the most. This is Dylan's thing, you know, the only thing. And why's that even bad? Some people's whole thing is looking like a really attractive mannequin. How's that better? Making Ty laugh, making Posey laugh, actually feeling like he belongs somewhere, for five seconds. When did that become the problem?
What the hell else does he have?
The first teaser for Terminal leaks two weeks early, and Tyler can't steal Dylan's laptop in time.
Alex is good, he's really good. Dylan's not so biased he can't admit that. He's got this really sweet charm, this easiness about him. This quiet, magnetic chemistry between him and Felicity, like old friends that can reconnect after years and years and nothing's changed at all. No fireworks, no insane electricity, but enough to make you go—oh. It's too bad that didn't work out. And feel a little twinge in your gut at every near miss.
Dylan knew Alex had him beat at the chemistry read. He knew that.
He didn't know it like he knows it now, but he knew.
He's really low key in unexpected ways, but it works. It makes sense. Dylan never would've played Micah like this in a thousand years, but he gets it.
And he's fine.
He's fine.
Mostly.
"I'm fine," Dylan says, for the hundredth time. "I said I was done being an actor anyway. It's just a shame you couldn't do it."
"You're not done being an actor," Tyler says.
Dylan looks at him. "Wanna bet?"
"Yeah, I do," Tyler says. "Sooner or later you're gonna realize your career's bigger than this movie. Or Teen Wolf. Or Blue fucking Mind."
"Don't," Dylan says, his face exploding with heat. Fucking Blue Mind. He should've just done a straight-out porno. At least then someone might've enjoyed it.
"Sorry," Tyler says. "I still don't think it was that bad."
"Yeah, and your Disney cartoon, with the dancing pumpkin, and the cartwheels? Some of your best work," Dylan says.
Tyler's ears are a shade off purple. He puts his hands up in surrender. "You've made your point."
"I mean, that cartwheel?" Dylan says. He can't resist. "Did you ever consider an Olympic bid?"
"Very briefly," Tyler says.
Dylan looks at him, open-mouthed. "Seriously?"
"It wasn't," Tyler starts, still not looking directly at him. "I would've had to—Acting was a better bet. And baseball," he adds.
"There is a rich history here I am only beginning to plumb the depths of," Dylan says in his best Indiana Jones voice.
"Shut up," Tyler says.
Posey's determined, this time. He's got an agenda.
"It's too fucking quiet here," he says. "I'd lose it in about five seconds. You need music."
He makes Dylan a mixtape. An actual, honest-to-god mixtape, is this literally 1989? Where did Dylan stash that Walkman he had when he was six, again?
"I didn't wanna just put it on your phone," Posey says. "Then you're doing all kinds of other shit while you're listening. It ruins it. You have to take away the distractions, man, just enjoy it the way we used to."
"When we were kids, in the rockin' seventies?" Dylan suggests.
"I mean it," Posey says. "Here, listen."
He's got a pair of those massive noise-blocking headphones. No earbuds here.
"It's Blink, isn't it," Dylan guesses, before he puts them on. "Just thirteen Blink-182 songs."
"I'm not that predictable," Posey says. "There's one," he admits. "Track three."
"Oh my god, is there a handmade lyric insert?" Dylan says, pulling it out as the first song starts. "This is amazing."
"Shut up, shut up," Posey says urgently. "Just listen."
"I've never been more serious, dude," Dylan says, but he obeys anyway. "Holy shit, how have I never heard this before?"
Posey grins. "Thought you'd like him."
"Seriously, so good," Dylan says. "Do you have one of those splitter things? You should get to enjoy this."
"Nope," Posey says regretfully. "Next time. Just enjoy it."
"Na, man," Dylan says, waving him close as the second song starts. "Oh, I know this one. Love it. Come here, come on."
They put their heads together, shoulders close, Dylan stretching the headphone over to Posey's ear.
And vibe the hell out.
It's fine, it's fine. It's just that Dylan's fallen into the habit of watching that teaser trailer on a loop, like a crazy person.
Maybe not like a crazy person. Given recent events. Behavior at go-sees. Diagnoses. Medication doses.
Doh-sees.
Because Alex is good, he's really good, it's just—they liked Dylan. They wanted Dylan.
They just didn't "know if they could count on him." Or whatever it was, some version of that.
And even blasting Posey's mixtape—that awesome Astronautalis track, Kendrick Lamar's depression confession and self-love anthem, that one really good Blink-182 song off their worst record (according to Posey, anyway)—he can't just let that go.
But it does help.
Sort of.
Tyler's going to work, but he's not happy about it. His producers have promised him this is the last batch of new scenes, but he doesn't have much faith in their word at this point.
"I'll be fine," Dylan says. "I've got meds, I've got music. I've got beepy machines morse-coding dubious, possibly nefarious machinations. What more could a guy ask for?"
No jokes, right, but it isn't, really. And she can't count sarcasm. He'd have to superglue his mouth shut.
"I love you," Tyler says.
"I know," Dylan says, and doesn't even realize what he's quoting until Tyler texts him from the car.
There's a good couple of days. Too good. Dylan's impatient, waiting for the inevitable low to come, knock him flat.
And then it does.
The studio releases the full Terminal trailer in all its glory, and it's glorious. It's exactly right.
In exactly all the ways Dylan would've gotten it wrong.
Micah's quiet, he's easy. He's not some embittered guy just because he and his girl have split, he's got a whole life outside that. He knows pain, but he's not soaked in it, you know? He's got friends, he's got family. A girl he's seeing kind of tentatively—Dylan just rejected that whole side of him, dove deep into the sadness. And it's a subtle sadness, almost a secret. But nothing that dramatic.
He's just a guy, you know? A real guy.
Dylan would've made him a headcase.
And the beauty in this is the progression, how Micah slowly falls apart, how he comes back together, somehow, and builds his little broken family into something less broken, without going all Hollywood about it.
Dylan's completely fucking humiliated at his take on it, now. Seeing this, seeing how fucking perfect this is.
And it's just the fucking trailer.
This movie's gonna fucking kill him. Everywhere he goes, every time he sees a poster, or a teaser, any of the actor's faces, every time he's in a fucking terminal, he's gonna remember how bad he blew it.
So that's it, that's a fucking sign. And Dylan doesn't believe in signs, doesn't really believe in anything, but it's never been clearer.
Dylan O'Brien, actor.
There's his funniest fucking joke, right there.
There's a futile attempt to eat, but everything tastes like tin. Chicken soup, fine, maybe that came from a tin, but Jell-o? Apple juice? In a little apple sauce cup, too, not a cup cup. Hospital food's weird as hell. Those little Lorna Doone shortbread cookies, everything's coated in just a fine, subtle aftertaste of metal. A really nuanced, layered flavor of robot food, just under the normal food.
Can't wait to suck Tyler's robot dick. Taste the rusty rainbow.
Okay, that's kinda gross, even for Dylan.
He's feeling itchy, all day, not like scratchy but just—his skin's crawling, whenever anyone comes by. Even Posey, Dylan's not feeling it, even if the look on Posey's face makes him maybe the guiltiest he's ever felt. Sorry, sorry sorry sorry, it doesn't even feel like a real word anymore. Just two syllables to shove at people that hurt less than get lost.
So Tyler can just stay at work forever, please. The plan is faking sleep from the moment the door opens, not budging. Dylan used to be an actor, sort of—He can do that much, surely.
Tyler's been texting, all day, and Dylan's been firing back one word replies, or just emojis, trying not to hate him.
And it's a plan, it's a solid plan. Fake sleep, how hard is that? Except Tyler comes through the door when Dylan's listening to the last couple of tracks on Posey's mix again, and Dylan's suddenly swollen with resentment. Why should he have to turn it off, play dead for an age, for as long as it takes Tyler to GTFO?
So he doesn't. He compromises, doesn't look up from the CD player in his hands, that little slice of exposed disc swirling round and round and round. He's just a stone monument of a 90's kid, a literal radiohead. In a whole other world.
"Dylan," Tyler says. Coming closer, closer. Dylan stops breathing. "Hey. What's going on?"
And Dylan doesn't mean to, doesn't think it through, just finds himself wrenching off the headphones, saying, "Can't I be my own person for five fucking seconds? Are you the only one who gets a life?"
Tyler just looks at him for a long moment. Then he says, with extreme calm, "What life."
"I really can't breathe today," Dylan says, instead of attempting to answer that. "With anyone around, I can't—I just can't."
"What's going on," Tyler asks, concern flooding his features, and Dylan really can't take the pity anymore.
"Nothing," he says. "Nothing's fucking going on with me. Or ever will again."
"Dylan," Tyler says, and turns the laptop screen to face him, and nods.
And that's not—he thinks he knows, thinks it's so fucking simple, but it's not.
"Okay," Tyler says. "Okay. Can I ask for something? Just this one thing, and I'll leave you alone."
"Do I look like I'm in a sexy mood," Dylan starts, but Tyler says,
"Hit me."
Dylan stares at him.
"I'm—What? I'm not gonna hit you."
He knows how he's been lately, what a tool he is on the regular, especially to Tyler, to the last person who would ever deserve it, but that?
"Just do me a favor," Tyler says. "I'm not asking you to—hurt me. Just—"
"Good," Dylan says emphatically. "Because that's—I'm not doing that."
"Why not?" Tyler says. "Terminal was your movie. Your chance."
"Yeah, no, it wasn't," Dylan says. "I screwed up the audition. Twice. I'm not gonna beat you for it, god." Something in his stomach is alive, writhing. "Why would you—Is that—Did Brittany do that?"
"What?" Tyler laughs, and then sobers. "No," he says. "But Stiles did."
Of course. Dylan lets out a long gust of breath. That scene, that stupid Sterek scene. That's all this is.
"I'm not Stiles," he says.
"You could be," Tyler says. "I wouldn't mind. It might—help."
"Stiles was an abusive jackass," Dylan says. He can't exactly breathe. Or even begin to understand this. "Derek should have had some—some freaking self respect."
"Maybe Derek thought it was worth it," Tyler says. "Being there for Stiles. Any way he could."
"Yeah, well, well that's," Dylan says. Tries to say. His chin is trembling, face twisting into tears with or without him. "Why would—why would anyone care that much."
"Why wouldn't they?" Tyler says, and Dylan can't—can't look at him. Can't breathe through the lump in his throat, can't see.
"Because he's a tool," Dylan manages, voice tight, unsteady. "Because he doesn't deserve—anything. Or anybody, he's just this screwed up, this narcissistic, self-absorbed headcase—"
"Narcissistic and self absorbed," Tyler says, faintly amused, but Dylan's stupid body makes a sobby sound despite him and Tyler goes serious again. "You really believe that?"
"What's not to believe," Dylan says, blinking wetly at blurry nothing.
"Should I start from the beginning?" Tyler says. "I know you're hard on yourself, but this is—"
"Don't, don't," Dylan says, frustrated. "Don't turn this around on me, this isn't some, some tragic sob story, like any minute now I'm gonna start just openly weeping about being bullied as a kid, and you're gonna go, see, that's why you see yourself this way, you're like that cartoon of an anorexic girl seeing a mountain in the mirror—"
"Dylan," Tyler says, and Dylan says, "No, shut up, this is bullshit. Cue the freaking violins, and the choir of little kids, okay, just stop it. Just stop—"
"Hit me," Tyler says.
"Will you—" Dylan pushes the air near Tyler's side, says, "There, your shadow's gonna be crooked for the rest of your life. Look, it's all disoriented. Hope you're happy."
"Really go for it," Tyler says. "Hard. I want you to."
"I don't wanna fucking—" Dylan says, and stands, and shoves him, and stumbles.
Tyler catches him, catches his by the shoulders, pulls him close. And Dylan, by some stupid, unthinking instinct Dylan latches on to him, can't let go. And he's shaking, he's shaking, he can't stop.
Tyler's hands on his shoulders, all down his back, he's speaking softly. And they did this scene. They wrote this scene, Tyler wrote this scene, it means—it's Stiles, finally losing control, and accepting it. It's Derek, saying, lean on me. Just lean on me. I want you to.
However I can help you, whatever I can be for you, I'm here. I'm here.
And that's one thing you can always be sure of.
But wordless, it's all implicit, Stiles just shaking, his fists no longer fighting, Derek's healing and holding him, and just muttering, "It's okay. It's okay."
And it shouldn't be like finally breathing, it shouldn't feel like everything, but it does.
It does.