Archive of Our Own

“Okay! I think that’s it!”

The small, red light that Dylan had been staring at flashed once, twice, before fading away all together. A pinprick of color thrummed in the center of his vision, blue then yellow then orange, and it took him a moment to realize the camera had been turned off. Blinking away the light’s remnants, he lifted his head to see the interviewer smiling at Tyler beside him, glossed lips stretched over white teeth. She was thanking him for his time.

“It’s over?” he thought. Dylan, for the life of him, couldn’t remember the last thing he had said. He thought it was something about the direction of Stiles’ character after the upcoming hiatus. His exact words, however, eluded him.

“And Dylan!” The interviewer turned towards him now, and he plastered on a smile to cover up his bewilderment. “Thank you so much for being a good sport about the Maze Runner questions. I know you had that whole panel for it—”

“Oh no! It’s all good.” He took the interviewer’s proffered hand and shook it. “It’s Comic Con right? Everything’s fair game. And I’m just as stoked about it as the fans, even more so maybe, and—”

Off to the side, Tyler laughed under his breath, and Dylan felt his spine tighten under the sound. The interviewer—shit, Dylan can’t remember her name—grinned in return and didn’t comment on his rambling. She thanked them each in turn again, wished them luck on the show and other upcoming projects, and was gone with another flash of white teeth. Dylan stared after her, lost her quickly in the bustling crowd, and tried to force his brain to play catch-up. He felt like he was caught in cement though, sluggish and uncoordinated. He shook his head to clear it and just ended up dizzy.

A hand on his shoulder startled him into looking up. Tyler’s face was open and relaxed, lips parted and titled up at the corners, but something hinging on concern swirled in the hazel ring around his pupils; something like worry lingered in the crinkles around his eyes. “Hey man,” Tyler muttered. He stepped in a little closer, smile still affixed on his lips, and lowered his voice to continue, “You alright?”

The heat of his body seeped into Dylan’s arm, and the younger man found himself leaning into it despite himself. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just…tired.” His body sagged on the last word, mouth stretched in a wide yawn.

Tyler snorted, and the warm puff of air ghosted across Dylan’s cheek. “I told you not to go out with Posey last night,” he teased.

“He just got engaged! I am, as a friend, obligated to have a few drinks in celebration with him!”

“Which is what we did. Yesterday afternoon. I’m talking about you and Posey and Dan going out after that.”

Dylan pursed his lips and pulled away from Tyler, ignoring the way his body missed the warmth. “That was just a few beers at a bar,” Dylan defended, knuckling his eye as he fought off another yawn. “And it’s not my fault you’re old and can’t keep up with us youngsters.”

“Dan’s older than I am,” Tyler pointed out, but Dylan waved his hand in dismissal.

“He’s younger at heart.”

Tyler looked as if he was fighting a grin, sides of his mouth trembling. He was successful for all of .01 seconds. As he laughed, Dylan found himself staring at the dimple in the older man’s right cheek, eyes trailing down to laugh lines and the stark gleam of teeth. He gave a thought for the interviewer again—pink lips, white teeth, a face he could barely remember—and pushed away the realization that her smile did nothing for him.  

Still laughing, Tyler shook his head. “Sure he is. Anyway, do you have any more interviews today?”

Dylan plucked at one of his sleeves, pushing it up to his elbow when it slid down. “I think I have some small one soon after this,” he said at length. He narrowed his eyes, brow furrowed. “I don’t remember what time though. Shit, I should look that up.” Absentmindedly, he fumbled for the phone in his pocket. After nearly dropping it on the floor three separate times, Dylan concluded two hours of sleep before a Con day had not been a wise decision.

“Here.” Fingers that were not his own—broader, shorter, with thicker nails—deftly snatched up his phone.

“Hey,” he halfheartedly reached for it, hand half suspended in mid-air before it came up to cover yet another yawn. “Give that back,” he muttered, smacking his lips.

A moment of silence passed—well not silence because there was still a 100+ people in the room but Dylan managed to compress all that noise into a distant backdrop—before Tyler handed back his phone. “Fifteen minutes,” he said. “Same room, and the name of the interviewer is on your phone.” Dylan flushed. Of course Tyler had noticed.

“Thanks, dude,” he grinned, hoping it would mask the blood in his cheeks. “What would I do without you?” He sighed dramatically and fluttered his eyelashes, cracking up when Tyler rolled his eyes in a very Derek Hale like manner.

“Miss all your appointments and sleep the day away.”

“Hey! I resent that. I get up to eat.” The image of him lying on his trailer couch a few weeks ago—straining, upside down, to reach his lunch on the table—flashed through his mind. Tyler and Ian had warned him to sit up, but he was stubborn and tired and kept fumbling lazily for it. The sandwich ended up on the floor, and a PA came to tell him shooting had been moved up and, well, he never got to have that lunch.

Suddenly, Tyler’s phone rang. He sighed and glanced down at the device in his hand, and Dylan smiled at the adorable, exasperated look on his face as he started talking into it. Then, he promptly bit the inside of his cheek because Tyler was not…he wasn’t…Dylan stopped thinking.

“Okay…yeah…alright. I’m on my way.” Shoving the phone into his back pocket, Tyler looked up with an apologetic grin. “Apparently, I have one last interview too,” he explained. Dylan blinked—some bizarre mixture of hope and dread spiraling in his chest—and hummed, “Oh? You stuck with me for another hour?”

Tyler tilted his head to the ceiling with a groan. “No, thank god.” Something in Dylan tried to be offended but got lost along the way, smothered by the image of Tyler’s bared throat and sharp jaw and—

“Your loss,” he shrugged. He dropped his head and fiddled with his phone. That mix of dread and hope coalesced into a solid ball of discomfort and fell into the pit of his stomach. “I guess I’ll catch you later.”

The smile that had been pulling at the corners of Tyler’s eyes faded, crinkles smoothing out. Dylan kicked himself, trying to even out the tone of his voice around that stone now lodged in his throat. “You want to grab some dinner after?” he asked, because Dylan was, and always would be, a masochist. That circle of worried hazel was back in Tyler’s eyes, but his phone was ringing again, and he had no time to inquire further. Dylan was grateful to whoever was on the other end of that call.

“Yeah sure. Call me when you’re done?” Tyler was already answering the phone call but was still staring at him expectantly. Dylan nodded and, with a smile—that didn’t quite reach his eyes—and a mouthed see ya, Tyler was gone.

Dylan tried not to collapse back into his seat. Operative word here: He tried. He covered it up by reaching for his half finished water bottle, the label picked clean off, the liquid lukewarm now. He wasn’t even thirsty. It was just something to keep his hands busy, to ground him, when he wanted nothing more than to put his head down and sleep.

“I told you not to go out with Posey last night.”

Tyler’s voice came back to him, teasing, taunting…and a little off the mark. Yeah, he and T-Pose had gone out last night, but it wasn’t for as long as Dylan let on. They were back at a reasonable hour, and after a few too many slightly slurred good nights, they had each flopped onto their beds and passed out.

Well…Posey had.

Dylan blamed a lot of things for his insomnia.

He blamed the excitement of this weekend, all these thousands of people, all so hyped to see and meet their idols; a category that Dylan still couldn’t believe himself a part of.

He blamed being back with the Teen Wolf cast, some of his best friends, after so much time spent shooting Maze Runner.

He blamed Maze Runner itself, making him so hyper and eager to share with the fans because, really, he was just another fan himself.

He blamed Posey for getting engaged; he blamed Dan for making him take that last tequila shot. He blamed jet lag and his hectic schedule and, in part, he blamed the fans.

But mostly…he just blamed himself.

He let it get to him. He let himself be pulled in. Dylan wished he could blame Tyler—allhisdamnfaultbutnot—but he couldn’t physically bring himself to do it. Tyler hadn’t done anything wrong. He had just…been himself.

The bastard.

Taking a swig of water, mouth still kind of tasting like he swallowed an ashtray, Dylan thought back to this morning’s panel. He loved panels, interviews too. They were exciting, fun, all around good times where they got to goof around and answer some burning questions for the fans. Dylan hadn’t hit the point where questions or fans annoyed him yet. In all honestly, he didn’t think he ever would. Being famous (and he really didn’t consider himself so but fans were adamant damn it) was still something very new for him. He still couldn’t believe his luck, all because of those stupid Youtube videos he posted years ago. It was just insane, and he was very humbled by the experience.

So, no, he wasn’t annoyed by the fans or their questions. But…sometimes…he wished they would just take a break, take a breath, just so he could catch his own. Especially concerning one topic. THE topic. The only topic that Dylan could admit (to himself) that he was now uncomfortable with, and the only topic that seemed to be a default for nearly all Teen Wolf fans.

Sterek.

It’s been the running gag on set since season one. The cast had fun with it, the crew did too, and the fans went wild every time he and Tyler were even on screen together. Dylan used to have a blast with it. When Tyler was trying to be all grumpy and growly and Derek, Dylan would make kissy faces at him off camera, would break character and run a hand up Tyler’s leg, anything to make the other man crack and burst out laughing. It was hilarious, and even better was that Tyler quickly got into with him. They were the kings of Sterek, and everyone loved it.

Again, he blamed himself. Really, really, blamed himself. Dylan cringed thinking about the hole he had dug himself into; he winced thinking about past panels and that fucking TV Guide promo. He had absolutely kicked himself in the ass on that one. He could still hear himself say, smirking, “We’re on a ship. Pun intended.” Yeah, well, seemed like the joke was on him this time because damn it, it wasn’t a joke anymore.

He felt like such a fucking cliché. Falling for his costar. His straight-as-a wolfsbane-laced-arrow-and-completely-comfortable-in-his-sexuality costar. The fact that he couldn’t even remember when or how it happened—he just was filming one day, looked over at Tyler, thought, man, I think I love him, and meant it—fully solidified Dylan’s theory that he was living out some horrible, B-rated rom-com. Except his story wasn’t going to have a happy ending cuz…yeah.

It was not as horrible as he would have thought though. Yeah it sucked (majorly) but he and Tyler were still good friends. Great friends even. Really spectacular friends that hung out a lot and leaned on each other and spent a lot of free time together and just…were wonderful friends. Friends. Dylan sighed and pushed the heel of his palm into his eye, trying to stave off a headache.

“You’ve really done it this time, O’Brien,” he muttered to himself.

“I’m sorry?”

Startled, Dylan jerked up his head to see a rather young looking man, probably around his age, standing a few feet away. An expression of discomfort and confusion filtered across his face, and a press badge hung around his neck. Shit. The interviewer. Shaking his head and conjuring up a smile, Dylan stood and offered his hand, laughing at himself to ease the awkward air. “Sorry, dude. Just lost in my own thoughts. You’re my interviewer right?”

The man blinked and smiled, tension bleeding out of his shoulders. He was probably new. Dylan felt a pinch of sympathy for him and resolved to give some awesome answers this time around, ones that he would actually remember. He could do this. He was a professional.

It took them a few minutes to get situated, for the camera with its blinking red light to be flicked on, but soon enough they were sitting across from each other and the interviewer was gearing up to ask his first question. Dylan clasped his hands in front of him on the table, grey, long sleeves pushed to the elbows, and smiled encouragingly.

“So, I know you must get this question a lot, but I also know a lot of our viewers are dying to know: Is Sterek anywhere in Teen Wolf’s future?”

A muscle in Dylan’s cheek ticked, and his smile grew jagged along the edges, splintering along a fault line.

Dylan was done. 1000%, completely, totally, just done.

He rubbed at the back of his neck, craned it from side to side, groaning under his breath when it did nothing to relieve the tension coiled underneath his skin. God, he was tired. Like, bone tired. He hadn’t been this tired in a long time actually. It was like cement in his bones, anchors in his feet, hooks dragging his eyes down. Fumbling along the hotel hallway with eyes half shut, Dylan prayed that security was doing its job. He literally could not handle running into any fans right now.

Granted, it was late. At least Dylan thought so. It was dark outside anyway. That was late enough for him because he was tired. Did he mention that? For all the love he had for his fellow Maze Runner actors, he really wished they hadn’t dragged him to dinner…and drinks. He really needed to learn how to say no.

Groping his room keycard out of his wallet, Dylan didn’t even think before he slid it into the slot, paused for the little green light, and basically fell through the doorway. A second later, he wished he had been paying a little more attention.

“OH MY GOD!”

The blood-curling scream set every hair on Dylan’s body on end. He stumbled back, pain shooting up his spine when the door handle pressed harshly into his skin. His heart was racing a million miles a minute and his chest was heaving and jesus fucking christ how is this his life?

“Dude!” Posey exclaimed from his bed. The bed he was currently not alone in. The bed that looked a little more rumpled than it should for just sleeping. He had reached over and flicked on the bedside lamp, and Dylan finally saw how the white sheets were pulled neck high.

Just not around Posey.

Fucccccck.

“Heyyyy Seana,” Dylan greeted, hands fluttering uselessly at his sides before he shoved them in his pockets. Embarrassment flooded his veins like fire. Could he not catch a break today?! “Nice…nice to see you again. Con…congratulations by the way! On the, ya know, engagement.”

Dylan wondered if biting off his tongue would cure his babbling or if he’d still ramble on, no syllables or distinguishable words, just noises. Such was his curse.

Seana, bless her, smiled shakily from the bed, fingers clenching the sheet close to her chest. “Hi Dylan. And um thank you.” Dylan nodded back, brain scrambling for a response, but Posey came to his rescue and started talking before he could.

“Dyl, man, I love you but…did you not see the sign?” Posey questioned. His eyebrows were raised, brown orbs shooting towards the door, and Dylan vaguely remembered the sensation of something brushing his knuckles as he had pushed on the handle. He’d bet money it was a Do Not Disturb sign. He didn’t know how much money…but a lot.

Flushing to the tips of his ears, Dylan shifted awkwardly on his feet, keeping his eyes firmly glued on his friend and not his equally naked fiancé. “Fuck, I’m sorry Ty. I wasn’t paying attention—I just got back from drinks with—and I’m just really out of it. Tired, ya know? I didn’t even see the sign, lost in thoughts so…sorry.”

Posey was a good friend, a great friend, one of Dylan’s best friends. So, instead of getting pissed that Dylan had just basically walked in on him and his future wife naked and doing naked things, he just smiled and rolled his eyes.

“I told you your mind is a dangerous place,” he teased. Dylan laughed—a short, breathy sound—in relief.

“Yeah. I think Dan said once that it should come with its own warning sign and a barbed wire fence.”

Posey laughed, and Seana quietly cleared her throat.

“Oh shit, sorry babe,” Posey cringed. He shifted, the sheet bunching around his hips, and Dylan felt immediately awkward again. He rubbed the back of his head, jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

“Guess I…guess I’ll just go. Sorry, again. I’ll see you guys in the morning.”

“No wait.” Seana sat up a little straighter, made sure the grip on her sheet was firm, and turned to Posey. “I don’t want to kick Dylan out. This is his room too. We can always—”

“No no no,” Dylan interrupted. The couple turned to him with adorable, matching expressions of surprise. “You guys haven’t had much time to uh…to hang out.” He wanted to smack himself for that but settled for biting the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood. “I can always crash somewhere else. It’s no big deal. Really.”

Seana looked a little unsure, but Posey looked like Dylan had just hung the moon and stars. “Seriously? Dude, you are awesome. Like…the best person I know. I love you man.”

Dylan grinned and walked over to grab his duffle bag from where he had dumped it earlier this morning. “I’m pretty amazing,” he admitted. “And hey now! We don’t want to make Seana jealous now.”

She rolled her eyes in good-natured exasperation, and Dylan chuckled as he started to back away towards the door. “Anyways! I’m off. Have fun and all that.” He winked and darted out the door, laughing, as Posey chucked a pillow at his head. He was still laughing as the door clicked shut behind him and Posey’s half-hearted curses were replaced by the silence of an empty hallway. Dylan stared at the opposite hotel door, smiling like an idiot, for god knows how long. Then, slowly, the grin faded, the laughter dried up, and Dylan was left standing there thinking, “Now what?”

Shit. He really needed to learn how to think things through. After he learned how to say no. And how to not ramble. Dylan realized there were a lot of things he needed to learn. Maybe he should make a To-Do list. On some Post-Its.

Somewhere in the distance, an elevator dinged, bringing Dylan back to his current predicament. He looked to the right, and to the left, hoping some kind of solution would just jump out at him. Yeah, he wasn’t that lucky. Sighing again, lungs heavy with the weight of his exhaustion and exasperation, Dylan rubbed at his eyes and tried to think of where he could go. God, he was so damn tired.

The next time he looked up, Dylan realized three things: he was no longer in front of his room, he needed to start paying attention to his surroundings, and he really needed to get some sleep because why oh why did his subconscious brain think he needed to be here?

Tyler’s door loomed before him like some giant fucking cosmic joke. Dylan wanted to slam his head against it. He only refrained because he had enough of a headache, thank you very much.

He shouldn’t be here. It was a stupid idea. He should go ask someone else to crash in their room. Like Dan. Daniel would let him. He was British. He physically couldn’t say no. A smile started to over take Dylan’s face, and he was just patting himself on the back for coming up with such an awesome solution when he remembered.

Tyler and Dan were sharing a room.

They were in the same room.

Together.

This time around, Dylan couldn’t help his head from falling forward and smacking solidly into the wooden door. A few seconds later, Dylan heard the inner mechanics of the door’s lock turning, opening, and he actually whined in the back of his throat as he stood up straight. Today just kept on coming didn’t it?

The universe seemed to agree because, suddenly, there was Tyler: clad in sleepwear, smelling fresh out of the shower, and looking adorably sleepy. Okay. Dylan was decided. Someone upstairs hated him.

“Dylan?” Tyler asked and fuck, even his voice was all rounded and sleepy and—

“Hi. So, I know it’s late,” Dylan blurted, hefting his duffle bag over his shoulder. His wrist popped with the strain. “But Posey and Seana are kind of using my room at the moment, and I’m kind of homeless. Think I could crash with you and Dan for the night? I’ll take the couch. Or the floor.” He squinted his eyes. “Did my room even have a couch?”

Thankfully, Tyler knew him well enough (Dylan did not take that thought any further) to stop him before he could get swept off on another tangent. “I don’t have a couch, but you can still crash here,” he said, opening the door to let Dylan slip through. “Did you really walk in on Posey and Seana?”

Dylan groaned and dropped his bag just inside the door. “Dude, I think I might have actually seen something, if you know what I mean, but the whole ordeal was so traumatic that I just blocked it out.” Tyler hummed as he passed him, making his way to the bed farthest from the door. Dylan forced himself to not notice the way his sweatpants were slung a tad too low.

“Where’s Dan?” Looking around the room, Dylan couldn’t find hide or curly hair of the blue-eyed Brit. “He in the bathroom?”

“Nah. He went out with the Carvers and some other people, said he’d probably stay with them tonight.”

“What? You didn’t feel like chaperoning?” Dylan aimed for teasing but fell slightly short, voice coming out high and reedy as he realized it was just going to be him and Tyler in the room.

Tyler shrugged, the thin material of his worn, white shirt pulled taunt across his shoulders. “Not really,” he admitted, settling down against the headboard of his bed. “Kind of just wanted to have some dinner and relax. We still have another long day tomorrow remember?”

Something about his tone of voice, the way he was crossing his arms over his chest—like Derek usually does—made Dylan frown. “You okay?” he inquired. The back of his neck felt tight, like he was bracing himself for something, though he didn’t know what. Tyler nodded and reached for his phone, the small bluish light casting his face into stark relief as he thumbed across the screen.

“Fine,” he said. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Dylan didn’t have to be a werewolf, didn’t have to hear his heartbeat, to know Tyler was lying. His frown deepened, he opened his mouth to ask further, but the shrill ring of his phone beat him to it. Gritting his teeth in frustration, he went to dig for it—and really who was calling so late?—when a memory suddenly flashed in his mind, hitting heavy in the middle of his chest, so hard he couldn’t catch his breath.

“You want to grab some dinner after?”

“Yeah sure. Call me when you’re done?”

Call me when you’re done?

Call me…

“OH MY FUCKING GOD.”

If it were any other situation, Dylan would have found it funny that his voice had just gone as high as Seana’s.

But it wasn’t funny. This was anything but funny. Dylan didn’t even hear his phone clatter to the ground, didn’t even feel it leave his hand, before he was whirling around with his heart in his throat. Tyler looked equally stricken on the bed: his eyes were wide, his mouth slack in shock, eye brows arched high and sharp.

“Dylan? What happened?! Are you oka—?”

“I’M SO SORRY. SHIT, I’M SO, SO SORRY.” He took a step towards the bed but then froze, face twisting and contorting. “Fuck! I can’t believe—and then you didn’t even say---god I can’t believe I forgot.” He stumbled back a step and collapsed in the chair behind him. The wood creaked beneath his weight. “I’m a horrible person,” he mumbled morosely, dragging a hand through his hair and down his face.

Silence settled over the hotel room. Heavy and stifling, Dylan felt his shoulders bow under its weight. Fuck. He felt like absolute shit. He had totally blown Tyler off. He hadn’t meant to—god he really hadn’t—but that didn’t change the fact that he had. Dylan remembered how Tyler had said he just wanted to have some dinner and relax tonight; he couldn’t help but think of that as a subtle dig now.

From the bed, Dylan heard a sigh and tensed. He waited for it, waited for Tyler to ask him to leave, quietly of course, because Tyler doesn’t yell. He just doesn’t. That’s all Derek, and Tyler is all sunshine and smiles and friendship and fuck how could Dylan just blow him off like that?! He deserved this. He really, really deserved—

“Dyl. It’s fine. Stop looking like you just ran over a dog.”

--not that.

Lifting his head, Dylan gaped in disbelief. “I…it’s not fine!” he stammered. His hands flung out around him, gesturing wildly as if to demonstrate how not fine everything was. “I—”

“Had a long day and forgot we made plans,” Tyler finished with a shrug. “It’s not that big of a deal. We hadn’t even finalized the plans anyway.”

His tone was nonchalant, like it really didn’t bother him, but Dylan had know Tyler for years now. He could see that, even if he said it didn’t, even if he really wanted it not to, Dylan’s mistake hurt him. Dylan thought this was worse than running over a dog.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered pitifully. “Really, truly, sorry man.” He was like a broken record, playing the same thing over and over again because he knew nothing else, because he had nothing left. “My interview ended and Will and Thomas found me. They tugged me to dinner before I could say no and I just—shit I just forgot. That’s a fucked up excuse but—I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to…to be like her.”

Dylan was really striving for the Asshole Award today. He was going for the gold.

He shouldn’t have brought up Brittany. It hadn’t been very long since they had broken up, and Dylan still remembered how quiet Tyler had been in the days that followed. It hadn’t been a terrible breakup; there were no epic fights, nothing was thrown, no one had cheated. It was all very gradual, according to Tyler. With his schedule on Teen Wolf and Brittany landing a few other movies, they just…drifted apart. Which sucked since they had been good together, had known each other for so long. But…then Brittany would forget dates, dinners, and Tyler would miss a call or two and…they just burned out. Dylan had never hated himself more than when Tyler called him to say Brittany had called it quits because, even as he tried to consol his best friend, he couldn’t help but feel a spark of happiness and hope deep in his chest. He really was a horrible person.

As Dylan contemplated what circle of hell he was destined for, something softened in Tyler’s face; the lines around his eyes smoothed out; the crease between his eyes faded. He sighed again, and all the tension fled from the lines of his shoulders, the tight barrier of his arms. “Dylan,” he said. He unfolded his arms and pushed off the headboard. “You’re not…this isn’t like…” Groaning, he rubbed at his mouth like the words didn’t taste right, reached up to scratch at his beard as if he could stimulate his jaw into forming the right ones. “I’m not mad at you okay? And you’re not a horrible person. I know things have been really stressful for you recently. You haven’t been sleeping; you look dead on your feet more often than not.”

Dylan’s heart skipped a beat. Tyler had noticed? Then, he berated himself because of course Tyler had noticed. They were friends.

“Frankly, I’m surprised you haven’t missed any other things,” Tyler continued. There was a teasing glint in his eye, small, but there nonetheless. Dylan frowned at it, his hand tugging on wayward strands of hair in aggravation.

“Don’t joke dude. I know I made a dick move, and I know it kinda pissed you off. Don’t try and lie to me about it.”

“I’m not pissed Dylan.”

“Tyler—”

“I was jealous.”

It was like the air was sucked right out of the room. Dylan even felt his ears pop.

Blinking—because he did not hear that right—Dylan sat up straighter in his chair. “You…what?” Eloquent. Very eloquent.

Tyler fidgeted on the bed, looking uncomfortable for the first time tonight. His eyes kept skipping around the room, brushing by Dylan’s face, but never settling. He crossed and re-crossed his arms, gave up and let them fall by his sides. “I was jealous,” he repeated, inspecting the TV as if it was on and playing some baseball game that Dylan could never keep track of. “It’s…stupid. Just forget about it.”

He moved like he was going to get up, and Dylan panicked because he knew if Tyler left this room right now…he would regret it. Something was surging beneath Dylan’s skin now—a misplaced, unwanted hope—but it shoved him out of his chair either way, propelled him across the room and onto Tyler’s bed. His hand landed heavy on Tyler’s wrist, staying the older man, and Dylan hated the sound of his voice when he said, “No. What…what were you going to say?”

Green eyes flicked down to Dylan’s hand, back up to his face, and down again. Dylan had a weird sense of déjà vu, mind flashing back to a scene from season 2, but Derek hadn’t looked at Stiles like this. Derek had been incredulous and intimidating and more than a little irate. Tyler…was none of those things. If Dylan had to name the look in Tyler’s eyes…he’d say it was insecure.

But wait. What?

Tyler didn’t give him any more time to think about it though, because he started talking. Stammering, really, and Dylan felt gratification that he wasn’t the only one capable of being tongue-tied. “It’s not…I mean…I don’t…” He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “It’s nothing, Dyl,” he finally said at length. His voice was strong and even, completely level and cool.

“You’re lying,” Dylan accused. Tyler blinked, and Dylan felt a flare of smug satisfaction through the welter of his emotions when he squeezed Tyler’s wrist. “Your pulse jumped. Don’t need super senses to feel that.”

“Dylan.”

He said it like a warning, like a plea, and Stiles wasn’t the only one that was reckless. Dylan just hoped Tyler was nothing like Derek.

“You were jealous? Of the Maze Runner cast?” he started, and the words tasted weird because he couldn’t believe them, couldn’t. “That’s…pretty fucking stupid.”

Tyler jerked as if he’d been slapped, eyes wide, and he started to pull away so Dylan pressed on, words tripping off his tongue in a hurried rush. “I mean all I ever talk about is you. Well, the whole Teen Wolf cast actually, but I talk about you a lot. Specifically.  More than a lot really. Like, all the time man and, this one time, Ki had to literally cut me off because I was basically waxing poetic about your abs and—fuck okay I didn’t mean to tell you that but you get my point right? Please say yes so I can stop fucking talking.” Dylan clenched his eyes shut and really gave some serious thought to biting his tongue off. It would solve a lot of his problems.

But then there went his acting career which would totally suck because he’s just started and—

Someone cleared his throat. And since Tyler was the only other person in the room, Dylan thought he knew who it was. Fuck. Shit.

“My abs huh?”

Dylan grimaced. “That’s what you took from all that? Really?”

A smile flittered around the corners of Tyler’s eyes, fluttered down to pull at the sides of his lips. It was like ice cracking, watching the tension and discomfort bleed from his face. “Did the poem rhyme? Or was it more free form?”

“Dude! Come on! I’m trying to confess my love for you here, and you’re not making this eas—”

He realized what he said a second too late. Wide amber eyes shot up to clash with equally wide green orbs. Dylan’s words hung between them, echoing, shattering the glass wall Dylan had tried to put between them, tried to never touch. He was never supposed to say this. Tyler was never, ever, supposed to know.

Time sat, suspended, as they stared at each other. No one blinked, no one breathed. At the back of his mind, Dylan thought maybe it didn’t happen, he hallucinated it, he was dreaming…

Tyler sucked in a breath like he was breaking the surface of a pool, a sharp whistle between clenched teeth, and Dylan was still holding out for the hallucination bit but he wasn’t taking any chances. He wasn’t going to face this. Nope. Never. No fucking way. He couldn’t take the abject, blunt rejection. Reeling away from Tyler, Dylan lurched for the door, pins and needles racing down his legs. He managed one step, two, before his feet tangled in the straps of his forgotten duffle bag. “Crap!” he hissed, stumbling, off balance. His shoulder crashed into the wall beside him (and ow that was going to bruise) and he was just reaching down to tug his ankle free when two hands—broader, hotter, rougher—settled against his skin. Dylan freaked, tried to buck away, but Tyler pinned his hip to the wall with one hand as the other went to untangle him.

“Dylan! Dyl just—ugh! Hold still!”

The strap came free with a swift yank, and then Tyler’s hands were turning him until Dylan was facing forward, staring right into blazing green eyes. Dylan will deny until his dying day that he actually whimpered.

“Let me go Tyler.” Huh. His voice was a lot stronger than expected. That deserved a mental pat on that pack.

“No,” Tyler countered with automatically, and Dylan retracted his mental praise as he subsided because, really, how was he supposed to fight a body like Hoechlin’s?

The two of them stood there for a moment, not saying a single word. Dylan’s shoulder throbbed, already bruising, and it was only because he was thinking about the warm, aching pulse that he noticed an even warmer touch. On his hip. Tyler still hadn’t moved his hand. Dylan clenched his eyes as tight as he could and thought of Orny Adams in a Speedo to keep anything else from pulsing.

“Get it together O’Brien. Tyler touches you all the time and oh Christ why did I use those words? No, no. Don’t picture it. Orny in a Speedo; Orny is a Speedo.”

Lost in mentally scarring images, Dylan didn’t even realize Tyler was talking until that hand on his hip tightened and fuck no amount of anything save divine interventionwas going to help Dylan now.

“What?” he croaked out because he could do nothing else.

Tyler exhaled and his breath smelled vaguely sweet, remnants of whatever he had eaten for dessert. “I said,” he stressed the word, and he was too close, way too close, Dylan could count the flecks of gold fanning out from his pupils, “Say that again.”

The saliva in Dylan’s mouth dried up, and his throat clicked as he swallowed. That mass of mingled dread and hope was back in his chest, sitting on his lungs, and Dylan could barely breathe. Brain short-circuiting, Dylan licked his lips, trying to find the synapses to respond.

“Let me go Tyler,” he murmured because he was funny. Tyler scowled and god that looked like Derek.

“You know what I meant,” he said lowly, voice setting the hairs on the nape of Dylan’s neck on end. Dylan took a deep breath and his chest brushed Tyler’s and all the oxygen fled him in a whoosh.

“Look man,” he started shakily, wondering if he could save face, save them, because he had always said he never wanted to risk their friendship. “I’m tired okay? You know I say random shit at the best of times. My brain’s just scattered right now. It’s nothing.”

Tyler’s eyes narrowed and his lips thinned, pursed white. “You’re lying.” And before Dylan could protest, Tyler squeezed his hip and whoa! Dylan’s knees wobbled when he realized Tyler had somehow tucked a thumb in the waistband of his jeans, resting it lightly in the groove of his pelvis. “Your pulse jumped,” he explained and oh Dylan could taste the irony of his own, parroted words. “Don’t need super senses to feel that.”

His mouth fell open, snapped shut, fell open again. He searched for a lie and came up empty. He waited for salvation in the form of a phone call, a door knock, but none were forthcoming. Dylan was on his own.

“I…” he started, licked his lips, and deflated against the wall. God damn it. God damn it. This was never supposed to happen; Dylan was just supposed to pine and suffer in silence and go on living his life. Now, he had to live through the pain of Tyler letting him down gently, all soft words and I like you Dylan but not like that. Christ. Dylan wished he had never stepped foot in this room. “What do you want from me?” he asked dejectedly. He cast his eyes down, couldn’t look Tyler in the face, didn’t want to see the pity there.

“I want you to say it again.” A moment’s pause. “Please.”

Maybe it was that last word; maybe it was Tyler’s tone; maybe it was the fact that it was late and Dylan was tired, tired of running and tired of lying and just plain tired. He didn’t know. All that he could focus on was the deep breath he took and the words he exhaled a moment later.

“I said I loved you,” he whispered. He had shut his eyes again. The confession felt like glass coming up, cutting into him, shards stuck in his teeth. “And I have for a while, and you were never supposed to find out. Happy? Now will you let me go? I just…I just want to sleep.”

Tyler didn’t say anything; he didn’t say a damn word. He stood there for a moment, soaking in Dylan’s declaration, and then he stepped back. The warmth of his body left, his smell, the tickle of his breath along Dylan’s cheek, and Dylan tried not to collapse under the heavy blow of rejection. Fuck. Of course this would happen. What was he expecting? Jesus this was everything he feared and now Tyler would be weird around him and that would hurt more than pining ever had. Fuck. Fuck. The back of Dylan’s eyes stung, and he shoved away the sensation. No. He wasn’t going to finish this part of his soap opera life. He wasn’t going to cry and fall to pieces. He was going to stand up and march to his (Dan’s) bed, and he was going to sleep. The morning would come, and Dylan would pretend this was all a horrible dream. Even if Tyler wouldn’t, couldn’t, Dylan would act like nothing happened because he wouldn’t ruin their friendship over something so stupid as—

Whatever the end of that sentence was, Dylan would never remember.

Apparently, Tyler had had chocolate cake for dessert.

It took a minute for the sensation of Tyler’s lips on his to register. Then, when his brain caught up, holy shit Dylan was in for some sensory overload. Tyler’s hand, back on his hip, felt like a hot brand, searing into his skin, down to his bone, marking him. His lips were thin and slightly chapped, but they were warm and gentle as they pressed down. And his tongue, Jesus Christ, his tongue was sweeping, wet and slick, along the seam of his lips. Dylan made a sound at the back of his throat—which was most definitely a whimper, no denying that—and Tyler pulled away. He took a step back, glanced at Dylan through half-mast eyes, and dipped right back in, mouth harsher, more insistent, desperate.

“Fuck,” he muttered when he finally tore his mouth away. “You have no idea how long I wanted to do that. And the way you look—Jesus Dyl.”

Spots were swirling in front of Dylan’s eyes, and it took him a second to realize he wasn’t breathing. Sucking in a gasp, Dylan reached out and steadied himself on Tyler’s forearm, feeling the resulting clutch of fingers on his hip. “I…I don’t…what the fuck man?” This was not…what was happening? Dylan wondered if he had hit his head when he tripped and was having some weird, coma dream.

Tyler looked down at him, face cast half in shadow by the lamp at his back. “You can’t tell me you didn’t know?” He paused and inhaled deeply, shut his eyes and tipped his head back. Dylan found himself staring at the bared column of skin and wondering what it would feel like between his teeth. “Of course you didn’t,” Tyler continued with a sigh. “If you did, we wouldn’t exactly be here right now.”

Realizing that he should be paying attention and not fantasying about the feel of stubble on his tongue, Dylan snapped his head up and blinked. “Wait, what? What didn’t I know?” He felt like his brain was disintegrating, holes punched clean through by the smell of Tyler’s skin and the feel of his thumb stroking against his hipbone.

Tyler smiled, soft and true, green eyes glinting as he leaned down and poked at Dylan’s cheek with his nose. “I can’t believe you didn’t notice,” he murmured, tone teasing. “Basically all the fans have pointed out how I watch you.”

“That sounds vaguely creepy. Please don’t channel that aspect of Derek.”

“Oh? What aspect of Derek do you want me to channel?”

Dylan had a couple of cheeky responses on the tip of his tongue but shook them away. “No, wait. Wait.” He squeezed his hands between them and formed a T. “Time out. I’m…a little lost. My brain wasn’t exactly firing on all cylinders today, and right now I’m basically dead. I might actually be dead now that I think about it, or sleeping for that matter, I’m leaning more towards coma to be honest, so if you could just…explain that would be great.”

Tyler stared down at him, eyebrows raised sky high, and Dylan felt the need to add, “Use small words please.”

“Small words?” Tyler repeated, stepping in closer until they were chest to chest. “Okay. How about these: Dylan, I love you. Have for a while. Will you have dinner with me after Comic Con is over?”

Dylan’s mouth fell slack, his eyes blinked slowly once, twice—

This time, Dylan was the one that crashed his mouth against Tyler’s and, hey, if he was dreaming he was going to get the most out of this as he could.

“Giving me shit for not noticing,” Dylan grumbled against Tyler’s lips, walking them backwards until they collapsed on the bed. “I’ve basically been draping myself all over you for weeks.”

Tyler nipped at the corner of his mouth before trailing back behind his ear. “Oh believe me,” he murmured, ok more like growled. This was an aspect of Derek that Dylan could approve of. “I’ve noticed. Thought it was in my head though. Didn’t think you’d actually…”

He trailed off, uncertain and doubting, and Dylan didn’t like that. Pulling Tyler’s face around, he kissed him slowly, thoroughly, and muttered, “That’s my line Mr. Photoshopped Abs.”

Tyler laughed, the motion of it shaking Dylan, and brushed a kiss against the tip of his nose, beard stubble burning deliciously across the soft skin there. “If you could wax poetic about my abs, I could write ballads about your mouth.”

“Mm…I don’t think ballads was the word you meant there. Porn was probably the most ready choice, smut a close second—”

Dylan was never happier to be shut up.

Later that night, much later, Dylan lay with his head against Tyler’s chest, listening to the steady beat of a strong heart, and convinced himself that this wasn’t a lie. He still wasn’t grasping what happened, still couldn’t understand how Tyler Hoechlin could return his feelings, but those were conversations for morning’s light. Dylan, for now, was content to curl against the line of Tyler’s body and get some well-deserved sleep.

“You know,” Tyler murmured sleepily a moment later, drawing his fingers up Dylan’s back. His words were slightly slurred, his tone buzzing with drowsy happiness. “I’m gonna have to thank Posey and Seana in the morning.”

Dylan hummed and nuzzled his face against Tyler’s skin, happy, content, and still floating on cloud 9. There was a moment of silence. Then—

“OH DUDE GROSS! I JUST REMEMBERED WHAT POSEY’S JUNK LOOKED LIKE! YOU’RE THE WORST! YOU’RE SLEEPING IN DAN’S BED TONIGHT!”