"Dylan, hey," Jonathan Trotter says. No biggie, just a dude with the freaking New York Times. Totally fine if Dylan blows this. "How are you?"

And that, that used to just be a question. Simple, obvious small talk, but now...

Now Dylan can't shake the feeling that someone knows. That everyone's talking about it, just quiet enough for him to miss it. Yeah, after he got fired? And tried that desperate little YouTube audition? Guy had a nervous breakdown. Just—completely, completely lost it.

"Great, you know," he says, fighting to keep his fidget-frantic fingers to themselves. "Yeah, it's been a little crazy, with..."

Shit, he didn't mean to... That's not what he meant, at all. He laughs nervously, laughs harder.

"You know, it's a little nerve-wracking, directing. But I couldn't ask for a better cast," he jokes, practically begging Trotter to pick up what he's laying down, head down the obvious road.

"Some familiar faces, for Teen Wolf fans," Trotter says, and Dylan tries not to look too obviously relieved.

"Yeah, yeah yeah," he says, nodding. "Tyler, he's incredible. I mean, I don't know if you saw—" But Dylan's put his foot in it again, bringing up Terminal, and all the questions that come with it. "That Terminal audition," he decides. "How amazing he was. He's like, the dream guy to write for. And with."

"What was that like?" Trotter asks. "As writing partners. Was that fifty-fifty? Or was it your vision, with contributions."

"Oh man," Dylan says, kind of grabbing the back of his neck for leverage before he even really realizes it. "Uh. A little of everything? Like, I had this basic idea, but Tyler, he really fleshed it out, in ways I could've never... You know, turned it around and saw it in this whole other, deeper way. And we both kept coming back with stuff, until it was just, it's own thing. Not him, not me, just... And that's, that's the weirdest feeling. But also the best, oh my god."

"So it's like your baby," Trotter says.

"Ha, yeah," Dylan says, before his brain takes that a whole other way, and boggles a little bit. "Uh, wow. Yeah, yeah."

"Subtle transition," Trotter says. "Now Tyler, he's not just your writing partner."

"Nope," Dylan agrees. "Also, also my... partner, partner." And why, why does Dylan ever try to speak, seriously. Partner partner. Is he twelve? Because he's gonna sound twelve, in this. In this New York Times profile piece.

And since when does the New York Times even profile random actors, or directors? That doesn't even feel like a real thing. This whole thing has to be some kind of setup.

But then: "Did you always know?" Trotter asks, and everything gets too clear, all at once.

Because Dylan's not some random actor, or director. No, no.

He's some random gay actor, or director, or who gives a fuck, and who he's fucking is the only thing that matters about him.

"Fine," he tells Tyler at home, "it was fine, it was..." But he gives up the act too easy, at the expectant look on Tyler's face. They're past lying about this kind of bullshit.

"It was," he says, and sinks to slouching on the couch. Grabs at Tyler's hands on the way, pulls him down with him. "You know, basic smash-grab garbage. Portrait of a gay dude, so fun. So original."

"That bad?" Tyler says, rearranging Dylan's limbs over his more comfortably.

"Probably not," Dylan says. "My head, right? Probably blowing it all out of proportion."

"Come on," Tyler says, and then he doesn't say anything, for a while. Just kneads at Dylan's shoulder, his side, this inscrutable expression on his face.

Tyler's not a big sharer.

Is it weird, that Dylan's just noticing this now that they live together? It feels weird. They lived together before, they were together before, all the time. So how did Dylan miss it?

Tyler's not a big sharer, with anything real. Anything in Dylan's head, or life, or deepest, darkest fears, Tyler's the first guy ready to dive in. But his own stuff, his own inner monologues, or anything he'd be urging Dylan to talk about if it was his, he'd never volunteer any of it, unless he was trying to relate. Or fighting every instinct, because Dylan's insecure and needy, and Tyler's too relenting, about everything.

He had this nightmare, got really shook up, and he wouldn't've said a word about it. Dylan felt Ty's tears on his palm and the guy still acted like it was nothing, like Dylan shouldn't even be bothered.

And it's just—Has he always been like this?

Dylan can't remember.

Sure, Posey was a buffer, before. Now that Dylan's thinking about it, Posey was this massive, massive blind spot when it came to taking Tyler seriously, as anything. And part of it was Dylan's own nerves, his obsessive need to play down anything that might be important to him, to anyone who might think it's dumb. Like, that guy, seriously? Come on. Like forget he's a guy, forget he's, what he looks like. Or who he's worked with, or knows, or his whole, the whole package. Just—you can't have sentiments like that, for a coworker. That's just... you gotta reign yourself in. But especially in this job, with what comes with it, the scrutiny, and the notoriety, and the pre-teen viewership. And even beyond all that, just back at home base, you don't need that. Being some obvious, obvious clinger like that, just like, swooning at the first pleasant interaction. Or taking something nice, making it weird.

But then with Posey, he just took Dylan's awkward nervous jokes about it and ran with it. Like, Tyler's out somewhere, what's he doing? Just, roiding out, and like, sweeping entire bars of women into his hotel room. Not even as a sexual thing, just like, to work on his stamina. Chugging the whole top shelf and never going limp-dicked, and then the one who survives is his girlfriend, except none of them ever do. Just a million new cases of instant, friction-based spontaneous combustion. Or like, sexiness based. And that's what really started the Hale fire.

And it was the fucking dumbest, jokiest thing. Even then, Dylan knew Ty wasn't like that. He drank wine, okay, not like, shots, and was all about this incredibly active healthy lifestyle. And binging on pizza and video games, and talking smack like Dylan's gonna be intimidated by a guy who chooses Mario every time, doesn't even think about it. And recording like a million separate videos of Dylan getting scared shitless on his phone, never getting tired of it, until he caught Dylan freaking out, like, really freaking out, and got, like, the most sober Dylan'd ever seen him out of character, and sorry. And just stayed with him, kind of patting at his arm, not trying to say anything. Just deleting them, one by one, until Dylan was like, no, it's funny, it's just... You know, you know that feeling? Like, that trapped feeling. Like one of those old Windows screen-savers, that one with the never-ending maze, just turning corners. And it's just, dizzying. You can feel it, you know, the walls closing in.

Until it turned out Tyler didn't know, and Dylan was just this weird, neurotic guy who just assumed those anxieties were as universal as the feeling of fingernails on a chalkboard.

But he tried, though. Tried to get it. Wasn't a dick about it, when he could've been.

Just, Dylan said, press, and cameras, and fans. And being expected to be... on, all the time. Entertaining all the time, this really personable, fun, funny guy all the time. Just, Stiles, all the time. Or else it's disappointing, you know? Came all this way to see him, and Dylan's just—a guy. Just talking, whatever comes to mind, and it's not—There's no punchline, most of the time, no like, sharable moment. People crying just seeing your face up close, Stiles' face. And then you open your mouth and it's just, the biggest letdown.

"That's not," Tyler said, shaking his head. "I'm never not entertained, talking to you."

"Well this is, I bet," Dylan said, feeling sickeningly vulnerable, overexposed. Already getting jokey again, trying to put his Stiles face on. "Best scare yet. Too bad you didn't get all of this on your phone, that'd be..."

"I wouldn't do that," Tyler said. "Do I really—You really think I'm like that?"

"No," Dylan admitted. "I mean, probably."

"I wouldn't," Tyler swore. Looking a little sick, then upset. "And anyone who would's an asshole."

He was angry, almost.

And after that, he kept finding Dylan, by interviews. Or all press things, all those nightmare events with a million cameras, and everyone trying to get a quote, or ask the same four questions.

Kept just sneaking up next to him, behind him, at his side. And just hanging out, distracting him. But the best kind of distraction.

And then Dylan was returning the favor, without even thinking about it. Or at a party, just instinctively looking for him. And feeling so, so relieved just to see him through a crowd. Just to have a destination, you know, some place he could breathe. And Tyler'd wind his arm around him, without even looking, like he could feel Dylan's nervous energy. And just, take it.

And then there was Sterek, not the romance but the relationship, Stiles and Derek. In season two, all these scenes, suddenly. And Tyler got really excited about it, and had all these ideas about it, different takes, and beyond that. And it was so much better, collaborating, than just pitching every second thought, and then everyone expects it, all the time. Was like—all the best parts of it, but more.

And Dylan didn't even see it as a thing, like a romantic thing, at all. Just good, just something that just felt good, that he wanted to keep doing. Like, there was that side to it, obviously, on his end, but it wasn't—Dylan was good at ignoring it, mostly.

And then, and then it was a thing. With a name, and people—shipping it, or whatever. And Dylan kind of freaked out without freaking out, thinking, is it that obvious? And Tyler thought it was hilarious, and went all in. With the 50/50 comment, with everything.

Then Posey got wind of it, and he and Colton went deep, came back with the most explicit, the most terrifying shit. Like, amazing, the level of talent to it, and effort, but just—Dylan really, really wasn't ready for it. Like, confronting that side of himself, or that version.

So, fine, it was a joke, so he let it be a joke, hilarious. And Tyler was the first one to start laughing, wasn't he? So fine, fantastic. Dylan's cracking up, he's so confused, and mindblown, that people could think that. That anyone could ever even come away with that impression.

But Tyler kept being there, and being brilliant, taking every inch Jeff gave him and turning it into a real, true moment, figuring in all these experiences, and this historical background, and how he was raised and what happened to his dad and with Kate and all of it impacting him in these different ways, shaping his instincts, and thought patterns, and reactions. Little details, this one torn sleeve on a leather jacket Derek wore in one scene, and it probably just snagged on something and wardrobe didn't even realize it, but Tyler had a whole other explanation. Like Dylan's just like, how would Stiles feel, or see or react to this, while Tyler's building this whole world around him.

All that, and then Jeff just ignored all his ideas, and cherry-picked his most wooden takes, and redirected and redirected to keep getting them.

And forget everything, all the different perceptions off set, okay; that just pissed Dylan off. So what if it's not your vision, who cares? Tyler's was better. So why couldn't anyone else see that?

So Dylan said, Why don't we just try it? Just these little, little things, just acknowledging.

You know, for the fans.

And they had it, they had scenes: Stiles finding Derek in the elevator, and snapping at him about Jennifer and Derek lets him, and Derek's soft with him. And little touches, just comforting. After Cora, after Boyd.

And then Tyler had bigger ideas, not just looks or intonation, or motive, but actual scenes. Actual whole interactions, what if we... What if Stiles...

And after that, Jeff just—shut it down.

And Tyler, he just retreated. Just nodded, yeah, sure. Every new script with nothing, without any of his suggestions taken into account, he was just over it.

But Dylan wasn't. He couldn't be. All that time, all that genius, and then all Tyler gets is some dream sequence. Dylan gets this whole massive dark arc, and Tyler just gets, gets left behind.

So Dylan couldn't help it, he couldn't stop venting. To Posey, mostly, who finally burst out, "Why do you care? So much," he added, and Dylan couldn't even start to explain it.

"So tell him," Posey said, when Dylan tried. And: "Fuck! I'm so bored. Of all this bullshit."

Dylan kind of looked at him, trying to, to read what was underneath. Gut kind of twisting, world kind of spinning too fast. And Posey was like, "What?" Almost weirdly defensively. "I just—Dude. I don't care."

And, almost an afterthought, "You two can circle-jerk without me."

"Not much of a circle, then," Dylan joked, but Posey didn't answer, or respond at all, so he just dropped it. Just grabbed at his beer, and kept drinking, just to be doing something with his hands.

Til there was nothing left, just stifling silence, and Posey said, "You want him, right? So just fucking go already. Or you can sit here masturbating his shadow, I don't know. And then I'm here cleaning cum off the walls, like ectoplasm."

And Dylan figured out up, and basic movements, like the first go at new video game controls, and ended up back in his trailer, head too quiet, body too calm.

And buckled, dry-gagging his heart out.

"What if it wasn't," Dylan says. "Getting fired, or the break up. And my time line's just way, way off."

It's always weird, these sessions. Just, talking away, forever. The whole hour, just monologuing. But forgetting that's how it is, and stopping, constantly, trying to gauge a response.

Dr. Martin just waits.

"You know, what if I..." Dylan tries, and gives up. On whatever kind of introduction he's trying to do. Narration, he hates movies with pointless narration. Trying to tie everything together, all matchy-matchy. The clumsiest, cheesiest reincorporation ever: Just echoing that line back, verbatim, with maybe the slightest addition, or altered emphasis. When really the whole thing would've been a lot slicker without any of it. Or, really? The whole time, you're gonna be reading letters? Or recapping the movie instead of showing it, great. Shut up.

"Dylan," Dr. Martin says, reminding. "Are you here?"

Are you here. How is—and he's trying, okay, he's trying not to just dismiss all of this, laugh it off instinctively, but—How's he supposed to take that seriously? Sitting in this little room, white noise going so he can just start violently sobbing if he wants to, or have a tantrum, or whatever freakish shit he's supposed to be doing, here. Anything goes, really, as long as it's here, in the moment. But getting caught on a tangent, trying to find the words for something he's never tried to put words to outside his own mind, just percolating—no. No, that's where we draw the line.

"I'm just," he tries again. "What if I, what if it all turned to shit months before I thought? And I just missed it."

It took so long to even register, but now... Dylan feels like an idiot.

Like the worst, the worst friend in the world.

Because Tyler isn't a big sharer. He isn't, he never was.

But Posey used to be.

Dylan's first thought is to text him, but that's always his first thought. With everything, it's the easiest way.

But that's—No, that's the point. That's the problem. Here's Dylan bumbling along, thinking everything's resolved, when he's still avoiding any actual, face-to-face interaction.

So, set visit. Potential level of awkwardness? Astronomical. For so, so many reasons. But too bad. Too bad, this is happening.

Except he finds Holland, first, and she says, "You don't know?"

And the whole floor under Dylan just evaporates, just falls away.

"What'd I do," he says, when Posey finally opens the door. "I messed up, I know, I just... I thought we were better. Stupid," he adds, fighting not to claw at his face, his already stinging eyes.

"What are you talking about," Posey says.

"We don't talk," Dylan says. "Anymore. Not really."

Posey looks at him. Pulls out his phone.

"You sent me forty texts about the Lemonade ferret."

"No, I don't..." Dylan tries, tries again. "Yeah, we do. About random nothing, sure."

Posey's still scrolling, barely listening.

"Hey, c'mon," Dylan says. His gut's kind of grinding itself into a paste. "Can I—Please."

There's something off in his voice, something rattling loose. Posey looks up.

"What is it," he says. "Hoechlin, did he do something? Or—"

"What?" Dylan says, lost for a second. "No, this isn't—it's nothing to do with him. It's—You and me, I thought—I'm an idiot."

"You're not," Posey says, a little monotone.

"Yeah, no, of course not," Dylan says. "So you just decided not to tell me about the biggest, craziest thing going on with you, but we're cool. We're texting about inane viral bullshit, that's what really matters, right?"

"What are you talking about?" Posey asks.

"You got," Dylan says, and stops. "They let you go," he says. "MTV. After all that time, for nothing."

"It doesn't matter," Posey says. "I hated it for years. I was just too chickenshit to quit. I wanna... I wanna actually do something real. Produce, or... Not just be some fucking hand puppet."

"I would've," Dylan says. "I would've put you in the movie longer, if I thought you were free. Like, as co-writer."

"Don't, like," Posey says. Scoffs. "Hoechlin's the genius, right? My ideas suck."

"What? No they don't," Dylan says.

"Yeah, okay," Posey says, too flat.

"They don't," Dylan says. Feeling dizzy, seasick. "I didn't mean—Praising Hoechlin all the time, that wasn't, a... a comparison."

Dylan's such a fucking jackass, he can't believe himself.

"I'm just obsessed with him," Dylan says. "You know how it is. You get, like, tunnel vision."

"Yeah, I know," Posey says. "Except, no I don't. I kind of, don't care about anything? At all. For ages. Or," he adds, "I think I do. And then it's gone, and whatever. World keeps on spinning."

"I brought Stella," Dylan says, and holds it up. "We can just..."

"Yeah, okay," Posey says, and lets him in.

"Couldn't get a fucking tattoo without him signing off on it," Posey says. Draining his first, reaching for another. "You know Arden's gone? For getting Shadowhunters. Wasn't a scheduling conflict, wasn't fucking—anything. He's just that much of a control freak."

"Shit," Dylan says feelingly.

"And she was like, the last person on set I could actually..." Posey shakes his head. "It's all bullshit."

"Yeah it is," Dylan says, tipping his beer at him in agreement. So he's not supposed to drink on meds, so what? He missed this.

"No," Posey says. "Not just that, not just... Jeff. Everything."

"Teen Wolf," Dylan says.

"Teen Wolf, acting," Posey says. "Fucking—being a person. Waiting for everything to fall to shit. Not even getting, like, surprised about it. Anymore."

"What the fuck happened to you?" Dylan says. Everything's kind of starting to rattle at the edges, his heart's going too fast.

"What the fuck didn't," Posey says, and laughs, and falls over laughing.

"I know, I know I fucked up," Dylan says. Unwrapping from around Posey's collar, his side. "We went out, we didn't..." Shaking his head to clear it, and just making everything so much worse. "Me and Tyler," he says. "I forgot, man, I'm sorry."

On the phone, Tyler isn't even more than annoyed, he's over it. In a second, he's already recalibrating. Moving on. Dylan knows how fucking fake that is. And he's letting it happen, because it's easier. Because he's got a dry mouth and a tender skull and because half of the world's two most important people are going through something he didn't have the balls yesterday to even vaguely detect. Until it was just—obvious.

"I really am sorry," he says, softer. "I'll—I'll talk to them, okay? Try to smooth things over. Or cover the deposit, at least." And there he goes again, just treading on exposed nerves, never even thinking about it until after the fact. "No, no no no," he interjects. "Because—because I'm an idiot. Yeah I am," he says. "I'm just, I just blanked on it. And you were waiting, and that's a shitty feeling." Scrubbing at his eyes, his jaw, trying to sit up without upsetting some core intestinal mechanism. "I don't like being shitty to you."

Posey groans, twitches vaguely.

Dylan pats at his shoulder.

"I'm gonna make it up to you," he tells Tyler. "I'm... I will, I swear. This isn't gonna be a thing, with us."

Famous last words, right?

"I'm a shithead," Dylan tells Tyler on Posey's porch, hugging him. He's a little tense, but he settles in Dylan's arms, urges him closer.

"I had, like, two beers. Not even," Dylan corrects. "I just forgot how quick it hits, now."

"You sure it's safe? Mixing," Tyler says. His voice is warm, not an inch of judgment. Just concern.

Dylan is the suckiest, suckiest boyfriend. Fiance, fuck.

Or fiancee? Who even knows.

"Love you," he tells Tyler's shoulder. "Hate disappointing you."

"You didn't..." Tyler starts, but he did, he obviously did. Just thinking about it, about Tyler just waiting there for him, it's the saddest thing in the world. "Hey. Hey, it's okay."

"It's not," Dylan says, fighting not to cry. "It's not, you're important. You're important to me."

"I know," Tyler says soothingly. "I know, D, it's okay."

"Shouldn't be," Dylan says.

"They let him go," he tells Tyler, in the car. Handing back his water bottle, trying not to cry again. At how good he is, Ty. At everything. "MTV," he says, when the lump in his throat recedes. "Or Jeff, I don't know. Half a dozen of one, six of the other."

"Permanently?" Tyler says. His hand on Dylan's back, just rubbing the beds of his fingers up and down, his thumb massaging in small circles. "I thought it was just a, a break. That's how they're spinning it."

Of course, of course Tyler already knows.

"He didn't mention an end date," Dylan says.

"Wow," Tyler says.

"How can they just do that?" Dylan demands. "Just cut him off, like it's nothing. From his own show."

"Wouldn't be the first time," Tyler says.

It takes Dylan a minute.

"That's not the same," he says. "I was an oversensitive, condescending prick, people hated me."

"Nobody hated you," Tyler says. "Everyone has a bad day, once in a while. It shouldn't have been that easy."

"Yeah, well he didn't do anything," Dylan says. "Or, or Arden? She just booked something else. Pricked his paper-thin ego, that was it."

"Arden's gone?" Tyler says. He shakes his head. "I'm glad I got out when I did."

"Yeah, that wasn't right either," Dylan says. "So you had an alternate thought, so what? We're not just bobble-heads."

Tyler laughs.

"Honestly?" he says, after some consideration. "Maybe he was jealous."

"Of your ideas," Dylan says, nodding. "That's actually not that..."

"Of this," Tyler says, and kisses him.

"So, um," Dylan says, between interviews. "I wanna prove it to you. Prove I'm taking this seriously."

"You don't have to prove anything," Tyler says.

"I want to," Dylan says. "I wanna, I wanna do something for us. Something real."

"Figure out the guest list?" Tyler suggests. "It's breaking my brain, just a little bit."

"Absolutely," Dylan says, nodding. "Yeah, yeah yeah yeah. How far in did you get?"

"Drafts? Four," Tyler says. "Teen?" he adds, laughing. "I think I just got in my head about it."

"Fourteen, wow," Dylan says. "What's the big..."

"So management, fine," Tyler says. "And family, and friends. And before you know it, we don't fit in the venue. And I know you don't want," he adds. "You don't like big parties. So I keep trying to like, narrow it down. And it just kind of mutates, all on its own."

"Evolves, like a Pokemon," Dylan says. Lays his hand on the back of Tyler's neck, scritches at his hair. "Yeah, I can do that. You got it."

"I love you," Tyler mumbles, kind of squirming into the touch.

"That's all it takes? Okay," Dylan says. "Erogenous zone, got it. Noted."

Lifting his hand, dragging his mouth just lightly there.

"Like you didn't know that," Tyler breathes, on a completely different planet.

Dylan laughs.

It's the worst feeling, coming out of these perfect moments. Remembering the look on Posey's face, the way he said, being a person. Like he gets it, understands it too exactly, what the come down of this high feels like. Maybe without ever feeling the high at all.

Dylan's buried under thirty-four pages of Tyler's diligent notes, just trying not to lose it for the third time in a day. All this dedicated, detailed planning, and Dylan's just tripping through everything, barely even looking down at who he's stepping on. Tyler's not even taking this opportunity to relax, take a breath; no, he's cooking. He's been watching all these YouTube tutorials, getting more and more impressive all the time. And it's not like Dylan can't make a connection, the studiousness there, and how he's constantly looking to Dylan, after, at his plate, keeping an eye out.

Making sure he's eating.

And just, and just. How can Dylan even start to compare to that? Even come close to that level, that much effort, just to... Just to play it down, act like that little bit of praise at the end of it is more than he could ever ask for.

There's this pressure on Dylan's chest. This tightness, this mounting, mounting dread that he's gonna let Tyler down. He's gonna relapse, have a bad patch again, and Tyler's gonna pull himself apart trying to do everything, fix everything, when he can't. When he inherently, inherently can't.

This list, all fourteen near-identical versions of it, he's already doing it. Shedding everything, everything that's anything to him, trying to make Dylan happy.

Every list, every one, his friends are the one crossed out. Brittany, Colton, Camille, gone. And Ian, his closest fucking friend, Ian—his Posey—isn't even on the list to begin with.

Because You don't like big parties, he didn't even ask. Didn't even reconsider once.

And what, what, what the fuck is Dylan doing? Cutting into him, getting between his—everything. His whole life, he's throwing away his whole life for this.

Isn't that what an abusive relationship is? Or, or a cult, something. Something dangerous, something inescapable.

And Dylan's just supposed to let him do that?

"Do you not actually have friends?" Dylan asks, and immediately feels like a tool. Tyler made chicken tacos, the soft kind, no boxed shells, no Hamburger Helper cheats. Chicken tacos, and this salad with fucking—mandarin oranges in it, and Dylan opens his mouth and it's to ask Tyler if he has friends.

He feels like a tool, but he can't stop thinking about it. When has Tyler actually flaked on him, for anything? Had a night out, did something for himself, with someone else. "I mean, besides me," he adds, later than a missed period. At least he's not counting himself out of the line-up too, god.

"I have friends," Tyler says, and doesn't elaborate.

"But not Ian," Dylan says. He should drop this, really, but he can't. "And not, not Camille, or Brittany. What about Colton, you like Colton, or—or Linden—"

"What are you saying?" Tyler says.

"You're like the friendliest guy!" Dylan says, a little desperately. "Like, the nicest, charmingest—most charming guy," he corrects.

"You're not that bad yourself," Tyler offers. "Outside this conversation."

"No, no," Dylan says. "You—back when we lived together, with Posey, we had people over all the time."

"Yes," Tyler says patiently.

"And like, you love parties," Dylan goes on. "And just—being a team player, being..."

Tyler's looking at Dylan like he's crazy. He feels, he feels crazy.

"Is my memory just broken?" Dylan asks. "Have I just mixed you up, like, swapped you for some completely other guy in terms of social life?"

"I like being social," Tyler agrees, bemused. "So what?"

"So... but you're not," Dylan says. "I don't like doing anything, or, or interacting outside of work, or you or Posey. It makes sense that I'm this, this homebody."

"Is that what I am?" Tyler asks, smiling a little too pleasantly.

"I don't know," Dylan says, kind of—rocked to his core. "I don't..."

But he can't explain it.

"Is anyone actually okay?" Dylan asks. "Like, in the world. Is being happy even really a thing? On any kind of regular, dependable basis, I mean. Or is everyone just faking it, for everyone else."

"What do you think?" Dr. Martin asks.

"I don't know," Dylan says. "Like, I'm depressed, right? Supposedly. Supposedly there's some baseline of contentment I'm not hitting, that everyone else is."

"That's one way to put it," Dr. Martin says.

"But like, who actually is everybody?" Dylan says. "What does it even look like? Are they just fucking giddy all the time? You can't function."

"And you can," Dr. Martin says.

"I don't know," Dylan says. "Sometimes, most of the time. By what standard? Maybe I have to be, like, going out, all the time, eagerly hoping to run into cameras, or fans, or whoever the fuck. While getting groceries, or meds. Or literally mid-piss, how about that? Just, no shred of privacy. And that's it, that's what I'm supposed to want."

"There's nothing wrong with having boundaries," Dr. Martin says.

"Yeah, tell that to the girls threatening to kill themselves if I don't answer them on Twitter." Dylan scrubs at his face. "The way I see it? The whole world's a joke. Not even a good one."

"Dylan," Dr. Martin says. "Are you a danger to yourself?"

"What? No," Dylan says. Looking at her, down at his hands. "Not—not any more than usual, anyway. That's not..." He waves a hand irritably. Staying in the moment, what happened to that? "Are you happy?"

"This isn't about me," Dr. Martin says.

"See?" Dylan says, pointing. "And you're the expert, on all of this."

"Dylan," Dr. Martin says. "I'm not depressed. What you're feeling isn't rational, or permanent. Try to remember that."

"Yeah, I'll make a note of it," Dylan says.

And realizes something.

"You didn't say you were happy," he points out.

"Happiness is a state," Dr. Martin. "It comes, and it goes. Just like fear, or sadness, or what I'm feeling, right now. But depression takes all that, and distorts it. Makes the good seem too fleeting, and the bad... endless. Insurmountable. It's not true," she says. "I know it can feel... obvious, and unshakable, but that's not reality. And that's what we're fighting."

"What's your head like?" Dylan asks. Quiet enough not to startle him, if he's anywhere close to sleep.

Tyler blinks at him blearily. He's taken his glasses off, it's weird. Dylan's getting so used to them. "What? It's fine."

"No, I mean," Dylan says, and tries to put it into words. "Like, what's your baseline. Mood-wise."

"I," Tyler says, and his brows furrow. "I'm pretty tired," he says finally. "Does that count?" Then he's frowning, trying not to. "What's yours?"

"I don't know," Dylan says. "Who says I'm even depressed?" he asks. "This feels—normal."

"Yeah?" Tyler says. Reaching out, drawing Dylan closer. "That's good, right? Means something's working."

"Could be," Dylan says, his fingers awkward and needy again. They find Tyler's shoulder, slowly settle. "Yeah," he says, giving up trying to figure it out. Just mapping Tyler's skin under his, just breathing. "Yeah, yeah yeah. I bet you're right."