"So, are we going to do this?"
Tyler ran a hand through his hair. "I dunno, man. I mean..."
"C'mon, it'll be fun. We'll be on a boat. Real James Bond stuff. I'll be James Bond. You'll be the - "
"If you say 'Octopussy', I will kill you. Slowly."
"But you're already killing me softly, sweetheart," Dylan said, blinking like a goddamn cartoon character. Like - like Minnie Mouse, or something. "And hardly, too. And roughly, and deeply, and - "
"Stop. Just. Stop."
"I didn't say it, Tumblr said it!"
"Actually, you also said it. Just now."
"I was also saying you'd be the leading lady. My perfect, flawless leading lady. The word 'Octopussy' never even crossed my mind. Until you said it."
"Why do I get to be the girl?"
"Because the Bond girls always walk around scantily clothed? Showing off their breasts?"
"I don't have breasts."
"You have pectorals, dude. Same difference."
"I don't understand your definition of 'same'. Or your definition of 'difference'."
"That's because you're unimaginative. Very, very unimaginative."
"Screw you. I used to read Doctor Seuss to my kid brothers, okay? Convincingly. I'm very imaginative."
"Hm. Let's see you play the Grinch."
"Dylan - "
"Oh, wait, you're already playing him."
"I'm not - "
"Loosen up, buddy, and wipe that adorable frown off your face. Does it bother you that much, having to feel me up on a ship? Being the Jack to my Rose on our very own Titanic? No, wait, you're the girl, right? Being the Rose to my Jack."
Tyler looked away, uncomfortable. "It's not - it's not you."
After an eternity of being subjected to the aggravated assault of Dylan's raised eyebrows and huge, stupidly brown puppy eyes, Tyler gritted out, "It's the ship."
Dylan's jaw dropped. "It's - you have a thing? About ships? Or, or bodies of water? You can't - is it a phobia?"
"I can still act, don't worry."
"But this isn't exactly acting, and you're not supposed to... huh. I'll just keep touching you, then."
"Cuddling you. We're supposed to be touchy-feely, anyhow. I'll take it up a notch."
"I'm not sure how that's supposed to help."
"Distraction, Hoechlin! Like with the ab-licking! You know it works! It worked, last time!"
Not the way Dylan intended. But he didn't have to know.
"You went from being all sore and irritable from being tied up that long to being, like, giggly! And stuff."
"I don't giggle. And stuff."
"You totally do. Also, your mouth's twitching, right now. You do know it's twitching, right?"
"Shut up." Tyler tried to shove Dylan's face away from him, but Dylan - being Dylan - kissed his palm. Tyler snatched his hand back, startled, but Dylan only smirked.
"Better get used to it, baby. Jeff says it'll be happening a lot, next season."
"Jeff's building a shrine to the demon gods. I wouldn't trust a thing he says."
"He's being held pleasurably hostage by millions of nubile slave-girls across the globe as they tickle him with Sterek feathers."
"Dylan. Jeff's gay." Also, that was a traumatizing image. A truly, horrifyingly traumatizing image. That Tyler was immediately erasing from his mental database, and overwriting with images of... of baseball. Yes. Baseball was good. Pete Rose breaking Cobb's record. Excellent. "I doubt nubile slave-girls would work on him."
"But feathers would. Thousands upon thousands of unrelenting, ticklish feathers."
"That sounds like torture."
"Jeff says all writing is sadomasochistic, so."
"I worry about Jeff."
"I do, too. Although, on second thought, you're right; they're not slave-girls, they're demon gods. They're definitely demon gods. Wanna start a cult?"
"Too late. Already started one." Dylan laughed and patted him on the back, and... didn't take his hand away. "All good to go, amigo?"
Tyler took a breath. Eyed the ship. And didn't shrug off Dylan's hand. "Good to go."