Being in Tyler’s trailer always made Dylan nervous.
It didn’t look especially different from his own, apart from the few personal knickknacks Tyler brought with him and the higher level of cleanliness. However, when he stepped inside, script clutched tightly in one hand, he couldn’t help but think that Tyler had some sort of magical intimidation factor alongside all that muscle and size. Tyler drew him over to the couch with a hand on his shoulder before walking away to get them two glasses of water.
“You ready to do this?” he asked, taking a drink and sitting back down.
Dylan took a moment to recreate his Stiles mindset, taking on the wild thought process and hidden insecurities of the teenager, then nodded. He could tell the exact moment Tyler morphed into Derek, his gaze turning harder and far more intense, and shivered with Stiles’ instinctive fear of the more powerful man in front of him.
The read-through lasted a solid two hours, the steady flow of lines occasionally interrupted by one of the actors pausing to think out loud or discuss the particular inflection of a sentence or the interpretation of the dialogue. Dylan loved it when Tyler talked about his character, enjoyed hearing him describe the inner workings of Derek, and appreciated every one of the man’s insights. He threw in his own comparatively less eloquent thoughts when they crossed his mind, rubbing his thumb over his lip unconsciously as he spoke. Tyler listened intently, waiting for Dylan to finish to add onto his train of thought or direct it in a whole new direction and open a slew of possibilities that the younger actor hadn‘t even considered.
There was definitely a reason Dylan scanned every new script for any Derek and Stiles interaction.
Together they analyzed the scene to Hell and back, eventually letting the conversation devolve into random chitchat. They discussed a recent prank war on the set, instigated by Posey and Holland, and devised a counterattack that would be legendary. As the topics of conversation dwindled, Dylan found himself grasping at any little thing to talk about, any excuse to continue the interaction with Tyler.
“Maybe next time we should all get a little high before the red carpet,” he joked, shaking his head. “Posey told me it went by so fast he didn’t have time to get worried about it. Lucky bastard.”
Tyler laughed and slung an arm over the back of the couch, replying, “He also tried to scare every person who went to the bathroom. Besides, I prefer my high to be a little more private.”
That was brand new information to Dylan. He never would have pegged Tyler for the kind of guy who enjoyed smoking weed, and he told him as much, but he should have known better than the judge a book by its seemingly wholesome cover.
“Yeah, I do it every now and then,” Tyler said, shrugging. “Was going to tonight, but the new pages came in and I figured I’d better be responsible.”
“You still could,” Dylan threw out as unassumingly as he could, averting his eyes.
It had been months since he’d last smoked, a quick bowl with his friends that had ended with all of them passing out outside on a trampoline. He’d wanted to focus on getting his shit together in order to not blow the best acting job he’d ever landed. It was simply a distraction he couldn’t afford at the time. Now, though, was another story.
“Why don’t we share a joint?” Tyler suggested, turning to the side to dig around in the contents of his end table.
“Yeah, uh, that’d be cool,” Dylan answered, slightly taken aback by Tyler’s openness. “Thanks.”
The other man shrugged and turned back to face Dylan, offering him a neatly rolled joint. He hesitantly took it and cleared his throat awkwardly when he realized he didn’t have anything to light it with.
“You have a light?”
Tyler nodded and stood up to go rummage around in one of his kitchen drawers, and Dylan’s eyes skated down the line of his back before he looked away nervously, rolling the joint between his fingertips. The air in the trailer was cool and humid, making the collar of Dylan’s thin cotton shirt stick to the back of his neck. He ran a hand through his hair and glanced at Tyler as he settled back down next to his younger costar on the couch and held up a dark red lighter.
Dylan carefully put the joint to his lips, wrapping them around the end loosely and waiting for Tyler to light it. His gaze flickered from the other man’s face to a spot over his shoulder, unable to focus on either for too long. Tyler flicked the lighter, reflexively cupping his other hand around the flame and waiting for the end of the joint to start burning.
The first inhale caught in Dylan’s throat and he stifled the urge to cough, sucking in fresh air until his lungs filled. He held it for a few long moments, relishing the slight burn and smooth taste, and passed the weed to Tyler. The older man smiled crookedly and took a long drag, watching Dylan out of the corner of his eye. Just his luck, Dylan started coughing, wheezing until tears welled up. He wiped them away with the back of his hand before they could fall, knowing how red his cheeks were turning and hating it.
“Alright?” Tyler asked around a mouthful of smoke.
Dylan shook his head and breathed deeply through his nose a few times, willing his body to stop throwing a fit. He motioned for the joint as soon as he could take in air properly, resolving to try and not excessively embarrass himself. His next hit was shorter, throwing him back to nights spent in his basement passing a bowl around a small circle of teenagers who thought that smoking a little weed was the height of rebellion. His chest still tightened, airways violently expelling the smoke. He closed his eyes as he gasped, mortified at his own seemingly inexperienced reactions. Something about Tyler made him feel like a kid, continually tripping over himself to try and impress the older man, to get him to smile like he did after a good scene.
It frustrated the ever-loving shit out of him.
Dylan’s pulse jumped at the casual order, eyes flying open.
“Okay,” he stuttered out, scooting closer until their legs touched.
One of Tyler’s hands came to rest on Dylan’s thigh, too warm through his jeans in the suddenly stifling room.
“Dylan, remember to breathe,” Tyler murmured, and the younger man was still stuck on the syllables of his name on Tyler’s tongue.
He waited, trying not to stare too blatantly at the way Tyler’s lips looked wrapped around the joint. He licked his own in anticipation and rubbed his sweaty palms over his knees. Tyler moved into Dylan‘s space and tipped his head invitingly, his eyes hooded. Dylan opened his mouth slightly, leaned forward, and breathed in.
His eyes slid shut before he realized it, allowing him to focus on the smoky air passing between them. It tasted different to him this time, better, a suggestion of mint from the gum Tyler had been chewing lending a freshness to it that Dylan liked. The edge of Dylan’s bottom lip slipped over Tyler’s, a brief point of contact that made Dylan’s head foggy and slow. His hands itched to grab the other man’s shoulders, pull him closer, and let them share the same breath over and over until they’re lightheaded and giddy.
All too soon, Tyler stopped the stream of smoke and retreated, a smile on his lips. Dylan’s tempted to keep that breath locked inside for the rest of his life. Then it rushed out of his chest and his head spun.
“Oh, that’s a lot better,” he mused.
He knew it would be. It wasn’t his first time around that particular block.
The next one was all him, though.
They’d smoked the joint down the last tiny bit, the bit that burned the tips of Dylan’s fingers as he finished it off. By that point, Tyler had relaxed into the couch cushions, becoming a pile of hard muscle that Dylan wanted to touch more than he wanted a lot of things.
Holding the smoke in his mouth, Dylan maneuvered his heavy limbs to stretch over Tyler’s lap, his thighs spread wide over the older man’s legs. He dipped his head and curled his fingers in Tyler’s hair, mostly because he could. It’s soft, softer than Dylan remembered, and disheveled from the habit Tyler had of raking his fingers through it whenever he was distracted.
Dylan pressed his mouth to Tyler’s and exhaled slowly, smoke drifting through the gaps where their lips didn’t quite meet. Then Tyler’s hands cupped his face and his teeth bit down on Dylan’s lip and the most embarrassing noise escaped Dylan’s throat. His hips gave a little involuntarily jerk as he licked over the points of Tyler’s teeth, swallowing his rough moan. Tyler’s stubble scraped over Dylan’s chin, a dull sting that cut straight through the haze in his mind and went straight to his dick.
The other man broke away first, sucking in a ragged breath and grinning at Dylan like he had just won something important. It’s a strangely endearing expression and if Dylan wasn’t high as a kite and distracted by his costar’s long neck he would have kissed it right off of him.
“You are kind of ridiculously adorable,” Dylan pointed out, combing his fingers through Tyler’s hair.
Tyler scrunched his nose a bit, another habit of his that caused Dylan to internally scream every time it happened, threw his head back, and laughed, giving Dylan the perfect opportunity to drag his teeth down his Adam’s apple. His chuckles turned into a strangled moan, his throat flexing under Dylan’s mouth as he licked up to Tyler‘s jaw. After a moment of sucking a mark under Tyler‘s ear, it started to get messy and completely unfocused, Dylan’s lips gone soft and wet, most of his weight on the bigger man. Dylan rubbed his fingers over Tyler’s cheeks, stifling a giggle in the crook of his neck. Tyler’s hands slid over Dylan’s sides, slipping under his shirt and tracing lazy patterns over his ribs.
“You like me.”
It took a second for the words to register, but when they did, Dylan choked a little on his spit as he struggled to form a semi-believable lie. Fingers under his chin coaxed his head up before he could speak, though he didn’t lift his gaze, choosing instead to stare at Tyler’s chest and pretend like he hadn’t thrown himself at his hotter-than-the-sun costar.
“Of course I like you, you’re kind of the best thing ever, better than chicken and cookies and music,” Dylan rambled, the words sounding far away. “If I didn’t like you, I’d be ten kinds of crazy and I’m totally-”
Warm, dry lips meeting his cut him off, curving into a smile that Dylan could feel, before disappearing.
“Stop thinking too much,” Tyler murmured, cupping the back of Dylan’s head.
“Sorry, it’s pretty much my default setting.”
Despite that, Dylan rested his forehead on Tyler’s shoulder and let his thoughts quiet, slipping into a comfortable state of awareness, built solely around the way Tyler’s felt against him as he breathed and the light touches over his arms, his back.
“You’re not actually better than chicken,” he muttered, barely coherent, then promptly passed out with his mouth wide open.