They're watching old Flight of the Conchords videos on YouTube when Dylan goes still.
"Oh shit," he says.
Tyler lifts his head from Dylan's shoulder, looks at him muzzily, then the screen.
"Oh shit, oh shit," Dylan is saying, kind of bouncing a little, grabbing his phone.
"What," Tyler says, because he's kind of been half-sleeping for the past ten minutes, and for all he knows it's the fucking rapture. Dylan's definitely excited about it, whatever it is.
Good, good. Tyler likes when Dylan's excited. Doesn't really matter over what. Nice to just see his eyes light up, and his—everything about him just changes, all at once. And he's happy.
Tyler loves it when Dylan's happy.
He's texting someone, and then he isn't, he's dropping his phone in his lap and kissing Tyler full on the mouth, eyes shining.
"What," Tyler says when he pulls back, barely impatient. The answer can be anything, Tyler already likes it.
"I know what I want our movie to be about," Dylan says.
"So my guy writes these little dumb funny songs, it's nothing," Dylan says. "Just amusing himself, just amusing your dude. There's a bunch of little, funny parodies, maybe a couple of semi-sincere songs, you know. Random little lines of nothing. And your dude Vines a couple of them, and it blows up."
"And not just because I can't sing," Hoechlin clarifies.
"Oh, funny," Dylan says. "You'll be great, think of, think of that Why you always lyin' dude."
Tyler looks at him blankly.
"It's this Vine thing, here—" Dylan grabs his phone again.
And gives Tyler an education.
"And there's this, like, festival thing, this musical comedy festival thing, and you're contacted about it," Dylan says. "And you like, pressure my dude to do it with you. And he's like no, no way, massive anxiety. But he gets like, really drunk, and does it, and I don't know, it's a thing. Weird drunk off-key comedy shit, I don't know. Maybe it's not—Forget it."
And he's dimming, shrinking back into himself, and Tyler can't reassure him fast enough.
"No, it'll be funny," he says. "Like this stuff, these guys, who would've ever thought—But it's hilarious."
"Right?" Dylan says, perking up again.
"They should reform," Tyler says. "Like, we could make an actual musical comedy festival. How hard can it be? And get a bunch of guest stars that way."
"A Flight of the Conchords reunion," Dylan says, eyes huge. "And like, Rachel Bloom, and Garfunkel and Oates, and, and The Lonely Island, and fucking—Slow Kids at Play. In descending order of realistic possibility," he adds, deflating again.
"They're not gonna turn down a movie," Tyler says.
"What? Max is on TV more than fucking I am this year," Dylan says. "Like two minutes away from racking up awards and shit. And Hunter thinks I'm this aloof, overrated prick, so... I don't really know what they would or wouldn't do," Dylan says. "I'm pretty sure they all hate me now."
"Even Rachel Bloom?" Tyler jokes, badly.
"Shut up, you know what I..." Dylan shakes his head. "I'm such a tool. Just like, this ivory tower cliché."
"You're not," Tyler says. "You're not. You didn't cut them out of your life on purpose. You just built it up in your head. Like with Tyler, or your parents, or—me, even. Like I was just gonna fight you, or hate you, or you'd do something wrong and I'd—It's not true."
"Wise words from Tyler Hoechlin," Dylan says. "Wise, old, wizened Tyler Hoechlin."
"I'm serious," Tyler says, trying not to flinch. He's not even thirty yet, he's not—Even if he looks forty, which is apparently the general consensus.
Even if he doesn't know anything about Vine. Or tumblr, any of it. Any of the other ones.
"Yeah, no, I know," Dylan says. "I'm working on it. Not having a joke for everything. And not—getting in my head, all the time. Self sabotaging."
Maybe Tyler's just ancient now. For real. He's aged out of the core ad demographic, he knows that. Mad Men taught him that.
Camille's always talking about something Tyler's never heard of like it's the most obvious thing, and when he tries to return the favor, something he saw on Twitter, or Instagram, she just laughs and goes, "Oh, I forgot about that. That's from like four years ago, wow. Like when I was in high school."
And it's not—She's twenty, of course it's not the same. But Colton's just as aware of everything. So really, Tyler has no excuse.
"Hey," Dylan says. "Tyler. You okay?"
His hand on Tyler's shoulder, his arm, bringing him back to now.
But Tyler hasn't been to the gym in months, hasn't been in anything but this purgatorial horror movie in months, and all at once he can feel himself fading.
"Fine," Tyler says. He nods, nods again. "Yeah, definitely. What's my guy about?"
"I was thinking like a baseball player," Dylan says. "Or, or an Olympic gymnast, dream big, right?"
It shouldn't sting. Tyler doesn't even know why it bothers him at all. They're great suggestions.
"So my guy, right, he's, he's like this physical therapist. And your guy can have some sports injury, like... I don't know, some sports injury. We'll figure it out. So that's how he meets my guy, you know? And his life's kind of at this standstill."
"Who's," Tyler says, maybe a little woodenly. It's fine, he's fine. It's just—there's this thing, about Dylan's jokes, and his stories.
They're always a little bit true.
And maybe Tyler's just been blocking out every indication that he's this aging guy who's not going anywhere in his life, who has all these sad fading dreams and nothing to show for it, but that obviously hasn't stopped Dylan making a note of it.
Tyler could've done Terminal, he could've—He's had opportunities. Could've played baseball, chose differently. It's not like anyone but him ever cut him off at the knees.
But maybe that doesn't matter, in the end. Because besides for you, no one else really remembers the history.
They just see the result.
"Well my guy's been stalled kind of all of his life," Dylan says. "Like he has this job, it's a good job, he's good at it, it's just not—You know, you start telling people what you think you might wanna do with your life, they're not always gonna throw you a party about it, first thing. So he kind of went with the, you know, the practical option."
"You didn't," Tyler says. "You went straight for what you wanted. Didn't hesitate."
"This isn't my autobiography," Dylan says. "That would be so lame. I'm twenty-four. Might as well hand myself a lifetime achievement award and a muzzle in the mouth, in that case."
"My mistake," Tyler mutters. Dylan looks at him.
"What's up with you?" he asks, and his palm's back on Tyler's shoulder, his thumb rubbing up and down like the world's tiniest massage.
"Nothing," Tyler says, and can't help the tension in his voice.
"You don't like it," Dylan realizes. His whole body shape changes like a Transformer, hands to himself, shoulders sinking small. "We'll do something else," he says. "We could do something else, we could do—You had a better idea, anyway. With the undercover—"
"I didn't say anything," Tyler says. He's so sick of this, walking on eggshells like this. "Stop reading into everything I do. Everything's fine. Your idea's great."
"It's stupid," Dylan says. He's not even looking at Tyler anymore. "You should be the main character, I'm not even—I'll just be behind the camera. Maybe be an extra or something, some crowd scene."
"Stop," Tyler grinds out. "For five fucking seconds, Jesus, let something not be about you."
Dylan goes still.
Then he's nodding, nodding, nodding. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, sorry. Forget it."
And faking fine, and he isn't, he's miserable again.
More than miserable, he's—Eyes darting, like he's been cornered, like he's trapped, and then he says, "I'm just—Forget it," and bolts to the bathroom.
And he's not being sick, he's not, but it's small consolation, when he comes back too long after, red-eyed, too casual.
"Dylan," Tyler says, sick at himself.
"No, don't," Dylan says. "We don't—you don't have to do anything. You're—I'm just being an idiot. Over—" But he stops, swallows hard. "I'm just a crazy person, you know," he says, grinning horribly. "Taking everything out of context, in the worst way. Same old, same old."
"You're not," Tyler says heavily. "I'm being passive aggressive. It's not fair to expect—You can't read my mind."
"Feels like I can," Dylan says. "Feels so fucking obvious, all the time."
"Well that's not me," Tyler says. "That voice in your head, making you feel like shit? That's not me. I don't think like that."
"You're allowed to not like my ideas," Dylan says, his voice small.
"Yeah, I know," Tyler says. "Doesn't change the fact that I do. Pretty much all the time. Newsflash, when you're brain's not trying to kill you, it's pretty fucking smart. And funny."
"Yeah, I don't know," Dylan says. "I start feeling like I'm making progress, like I'm actually almost sane for two consecutive seconds, and then—And here I go, writing my fucking autobiography after all. And that's a joke," he adds, "and I'm not supposed to. I'm supposed to stay in the shitty moment. Just really sink my teeth into it. So here goes."
"I was just thinking," Tyler says, into the too silent silence, Dylan stuck in some bad thought, alone. "About... baseball. And Terminal. And everything else."
"Should've made you do Terminal," Dylan says.
"You tried," Tyler says. "It was my decision. It was always my decision. Baseball, the fucking Olympics. Everything. I could've went for it. I didn't. There's no one else to blame."
"If I wasn't such a—" Dylan starts, and Tyler says, "There's no one else to blame. It's my life. My responsibility to go after something if I want it. And I guess I thought I was doing that, but maybe I was just..."
It's strange, being so confessional. Being so confessional sober. Tyler's really not used to it.
Still, maybe it's time he took a turn.
"Maybe I was just dodging," Tyler says. "Any kind of big gamble, or uncertainty. Anything without a back-up plan."
"Ty," Dylan says, soft.
"It's okay," Tyler says. "It just kind of.. puts things in a new light. Maybe not such a positive one."
"But you like acting," Dylan says. "Don't you?"
"Of course," Tyler says. "Just—maybe not as much as other things. That I just sort of... gave up on, without even really realizing it."
"So don't," Dylan says. "Do it now."
"Yeah, I'll just get on that," Tyler says. "Major Leagues, here I come. Or, or the Olympics. Why wouldn't they let one thirty year old in with all the teenagers?"
"I mean it," Dylan says, and stops. "You're not thirty. You're not even twenty-ni—Did I miss your birthday? September, right?"
"We both know I'm basically forty," Tyler says. He smirks, eyebrows high. It feels a little plastic. "At least that's what you young people seem to be saying."
"Shut up," Dylan says, smacking Tyler's chest. Keeping his hand there, though, warm and steady. "I didn't mean it like that. I meant—you know, the beard, and the confidence. Like you had the whole world figured out for decades, while I was just—scrambling. Falling on my face half the time. It's intimidating."
"And Camille, she's really intimidated too," Tyler says.
"Fuck Camille," Dylan says. "She's like ten. It's like when I was a kid, I had this babysitter, and I thought he was like, thirty. A real adult, you know? Turns out he was like seventeen. Some idiot high school kid, what high school guy even babysits? But what did I know? I was like four. He was really tall and a Mets fan and knew the answer to pretty much anything my four-year-old brain could throw at him. So I just assumed. Camille's twenty," Dylan says. "Thirty's like, a million years away from twenty. In terms of fear factor. You know, everyone's trying to stay young forever. Especially around here."
"Hospitals," Tyler says, nodding.
"Mental health clinics, sure," Dylan says, but he's laughing. "You know, maybe we're all a little crazy. And like, insecure. No matter how well we're doing. There's always that tick tick tick, like, 'oh shit, is this how it ends? Is it all downhill from here? Shit. I'm too young to die. Or get old. Or whatever. And I didn't even get close to where I wanted to go, shit! It's all pointless.'"
"Whoa," Tyler says, more breath than sound.
"And we're in our fucking twenties, and we're wasting it," Dylan says. "Just freaking out about how other people see us. And like, our stature in life, and how far up this stupid nonexistent ladder we are. You know? I'm babbling," he says, covering his face.
"You're not," Tyler says. "You're not." It's like things are finally starting to slot into place. "We should use this."
"Use this," Dylan says, lost.
"In our movie," Tyler says. "It's not just us. It's a universal truth. It'll resonate."
"God," Dylan says, his ears pinking behind his hand. "You think?"
"Definitely," Tyler says. "Your guy, he's stuck, right? He's afraid to move, or take a risk. And my guy, that's all he's done, all his life, and now it's out of his hands. He's injured, he can't keep moving up that ladder. And he's watching his competitors just rise and rise, and he can't handle it. And they maybe have to—try each other's methods, for once. It's like that AA saying. Accept the things I cannot change, have courage to change the things you can. Except less preachy," Tyler clarifies. "It shouldn't be preachy. Just—they help each other."
"Just this fun, funny movie," Dylan agrees. "But with heart. Yeah."
"And musical comedy," Tyler says, nodding. "Yeah, yeah. This could be good. Like really, really good."
"Time to open up Word?" Dylan suggests.
"Do it," Tyler says, and goes for his glasses.
The last week of Harvest is the hardest, the end so close, but still so uncertain. Tyler's starting to have waking nightmares about finally making it through that last day, only to be slapped with a new pile of sides on his way out. A burst of horror music plays, and the camera pulls away as Tyler falls to his knees, screaming, "Nooooooo!" at a length that would put Garth Marenghi's Darkplace's pilot episode to shame. And there's a show Tyler would never have heard about, ever, but Dylan found it somehow, and it's incredible. Incredibly, cringingly bad acting, but in the most brilliant ways.
"I'll sext you," Dylan says as Tyler leaves, four infinitely long days left, and Tyler's sure he's heard wrong until his phone vibrates in the car, and it's—fucking filthy, but exactly—and it's Tyler's car, it's Tyler's car. What he does in his car, windows up, no one watching, is his own business.
He starts to get really affected by just the vibration of his phone, knowing it's Dylan, knowing it's probably—and then reading it, choking a little bit, excusing himself and finding some private place, the first—his trailer, or the honey-wagons, anywhere, thisclose to already gone. Heat flooding through him, dick twitching, he barely has time to get his hands on himself before—
And then catching his breath, floating in it, half a dozen pulses pounding and pounding and everything but Dylan turning as irrelevant as fiction.
I love you, he texts, when there's feeling in his trembling fingers, blood rushing back slowly.
SAME! Dylan responds—they've been watching Arrested Development.
And Tyler's mind is so clear, he's never been surer. In his bed in his trailer, holding his phone, that stupid joke shaking his shoulders, it's the most obvious thing in the world.
Tyler never wants to not have this.
He goes back to set, eventually, when he can fix his breathing almost ordinary; goes back to being Tommy, the bleeding, sweaty, shirtless ghost-with-an-ax-to-grind, pun not intended. Gets through it, moves past it.
Goes back to Dylan, goes home.