Dylan’s nineteen years old and an asshole, so Tyler’s not really surprised when Dylan eats all of the Doritos or uses Tyler’s shampoo without asking. It’s like a rite of passage to be a dipshit at everyone around you until you’re of legal drinking age and can then become a drunken dipshit. He’s not even mad about it.
But, man, there’s being a dipshit, and then there’s whatever the hell Dylan is doing with Tyler’s shoulder.
Tyler’s tactile – he likes touching everyone and everything. On set, he’s constantly getting yelled at for messing up Posey’s make-up and he’s banned from wardrobe unless he’s actually there to be suited up. He and Dylan are similar in that they like to pile up with everyone else and have absolutely no qualms about squishing so close together they can’t breathe. But Dylan hasn’t touched him more than twice the whole evening, sullen and cranky and more exhausted than Tyler has ever seen him, and this is just reaching a whole new level of weird for them.
He sees Posey check his instinctive what the fuck, and has no idea what his own face is doing. He forces himself to keep smiling and tries to project this happens all the time and is not a big deal.
Dylan looks like he’s about to cry.
As soon as they’re away from the cameras, on their way inside, Tyler mutters a quick, “Dude?” and gives Dylan the eyebrow.
“I don’t even know, okay,” Dylan tells him honestly and heaves this rib-shaking sigh that makes Tyler’s own chest ache. “I haven’t slept in, like, two weeks or something, and those questions sucked.”
“You don’t really have to be here,” Tyler points out.
“Shut up,” Dylan tells him.
The next interview goes slightly smoother, and has less nuzzling; Tyler counts that as a win. Dylan doesn’t really contribute much, not even to make the ridiculously easy joke Posey sets himself up for halfway through, which is just abnormal. It’s a long few hours before they make it back to the hotel. By the time they hit the elevator, Dylan’s leaning heavily against him and Posey, mumbling about billions of pillows and warm glasses of milk and sheep.
Posey shares a look with him over Dylan’s head, and says, finally, “What the hell.”
They get Dylan into his room through an embarrassing process of trial and error, because Dylan is too out of it to tell them more than the general idea of where his room is, and the keycard doesn’t have a number on it. Dumping him on the bed is a relief; no matter how weedy Dylan likes to pretend he is, he’s heavy as fuck when he wants to be.
“I got this,” Tyler tells Posey around a sigh, and hopes he doesn’t look as fond as he feels when he stares down at Dylan, passed out sideways on the bed already. Posey doesn’t argue – asshole – and he’s out the door before Tyler can say goodnight.
Dylan lets out a noise that might be a snore and curls in on himself.
“You’re no help,” Tyler tells him accusingly.
Getting Dylan’s shoes off is a production, because Dylan can’t tie them like a normal person; instead, the laces are a mess of double and triple knots that take Tyler forever to dig apart with his short fingernails. Tyler doesn’t even tackle the idea of trying to get Dylan’s pants off, just shoves and pulls until Dylan’s sort of half-under, half-twisted in the covers.
Tyler lets himself out and finds his way back to his own room without thinking about Dylan’s pillow-creased face even once.
Dylan finds him at breakfast the next morning, looking bright-eyed and chipper and more like himself. He plops down in the chair next to Tyler and oozes into Tyler’s personal space to pilfer one of his hard-won pancakes.
“Morning,” he says, garbled around a mouthful of stolen pancake. He chews disgustingly, and smiles like the asshole he is. Tyler puts a protective arm around the side of his plate and wields his fork in Dylan’s direction and tries not to laugh – Dylan doesn’t need encouragement.
“Get your own, you dirty thief.”
“Aw, boo,” Dylan whines, “why you gotta be so down on me.”
He goes for Tyler’s coffee next, because he has no shame, and Tyler doesn’t bother to ward him off, just sighs and resigns himself to being under-caffeinated until he can find a Starbucks. Maybe he’ll steal Dylan’s credit card to buy something – it seems only fair. He’s sneaking his hand down between them towards Dylan’s pocket as he says, “Someone’s feeling better this morning.”
Dylan gives him a sly look – one Tyler has become mostly inured to over the course of their friendship – and doesn’t even seem to notice when Tyler’s fingers creep into his pocket and curl around the edge of his wallet.
“I don’t know about better,” he says, “but I’m certainly feeling a little groped right now. Subtle as a dump truck, Hoechlin.”
“Fuck,” Tyler sighs.
He pulls his hand away hastily and it brushes against the bare skin of Dylan’s side when Dylan’s shirt rides up. Dylan just laughs at him, because he’s kind of a jerk, and takes another sip of Tyler’s coffee; his eyes are bright and wicked over the edge of the mug, and Tyler can’t look away.
Eventually, Dylan runs out of coffee, and Tyler runs out of pancakes and eggs. Tyler pays the bill, and lets Dylan lead him back out into the hotel lobby – and then they have a few hours before they have to be anywhere, so he lets Dylan lead him upstairs, too. They end up sprawled out on the carpet together in front of the TV in Dylan’s room, watching Unwrapped on the Food Network.
Dylan’s pointy elbow is the bane of Tyler’s existence the entire time, but it’s kind of cozy. And it’s pretty hilarious when Dylan falls asleep half an hour later, his face mashed into the carpet, drool pooling under his cheek.
Tyler knows better than almost anyone else on set how much the Posey-O’Brien duet can grate on the nerves. They’re both great guys, and he’ll go on at length - if no one stops him - about how fun it was to play pranks on them, how awesome it was to have that kind of support system living with him, but they are both fucking nuts. It’s just a fact of Tyler’s life. He used to regularly wake up at the ass-crack of dawn to Dylan screeching like a goddamn pterodactyl while Posey sat on his head to steal the TV remote, or gummy bears, or whatever they were fighting over on any given morning. They’re like five year olds, and even though it’s almost always Dylan’s fault when they get in trouble for fighting or playing a prank, Posey will inevitably take the blame to protect him.
Which is how Tyler knows exactly who to blame when he finds his shiny new season two trailer plastered with pictures of his younger self hanging out a car window, each and every one with floppy ears and nose drawn on. There’s a huge dog bone lying on his couch, wrapped in pretty red ribbon.
He lets himself laugh for a few minutes, because that shit is hilarious.
Then he goes and orders some temporary Spice Girls tattoos off of eBay. He has confidence in his own ability to freak Dylan and Posey out by pointedly doing nothing out of the ordinary for a few days.
Retaliation can wait.
Dylan won’t be on his guard forever, and then Tyler can slap a Baby Spice tattoo on his pretty cheek when he’s sleeping and watch him spend half an hour trying to figure out why people are laughing.
Dylan thinks their fans are hilarious and amazing and constantly asks Tyler to pinch him when they’re at conventions. His Twitter is half for himself, and half just because he loves reading the tweets fans send in to him, no matter how ridiculous or bugfuck crazy they are. Tyler can’t pretend to be unaffected by the way fans respond to him – he’s bowled over constantly – but Dylan thrives on it.
“Look at this one!” He grips Tyler’s shoulder and drags him down to computer-level. “She wants to carry my children.”
Tyler leans into Dylan’s side to steady himself and squints at the tiny text. His eyebrows rise of their own volition. “That’s a very polite way of putting it.”
“This one,” Dylan continues, ignoring him, “thinks my nose is adorable. Is my nose adorable? Look at my nose, tell me it’s adorable.”
“I think you have plenty of people to tell you your nose is adorable, Dylan,” Tyler tells him.
It is, admittedly, an adorable nose.
He tweaks it until Dylan whines and starts flailing at him; he looks so comically depressed by Tyler’s bullying ways Tyler can’t help laughing. They tip over with the chair a second later, unbalanced by the shifting of their weight, and then Dylan starts laughing too, loud and brash, with his mouth open and his head tossed back.
It takes a few minutes for Dylan to calm down, because his bursts of honest laughter last forever when they actually happen, and then he’s shoving at Tyler’s forehead.
“I’m gonna have war wounds, oh my god,” he gasps. “Behemoth.”
Tyler purposely lets himself go heavy and boneless.
“Help!” Dylan cries instantly, “Help! I’m being crushed by a walking muscle!” He squirms around under Tyler, kicking his feet against the smooth floor for leverage and finding none. Once he’s given up and stopped struggling, he informs Tyler petulantly, “You smell like dirty socks.”
Amused, Tyler huffs out another laugh and rolls to the side. It only takes Dylan a second to recover, and then he’s plopping his heavy head down on Tyler’s shoulder and getting comfortable.
“Hey, no, what,” Tyler says. “This floor is hard. Come on, man.”
Dylan settles in with purpose and Tyler can hear him smirk. “Your fault we’re down here to begin with. Suck it up, old fart.”
It takes less than five minutes for Dylan to drop off. He’s like a narcoleptic or something, Tyler swears.
Colton climbs into the trailer half an hour later to find them like that, and takes great delight in snapping many pictures from many different angles. Dylan’s ever-present tendency to drool has his shirt stuck to his chest, but he’s as comfortable as he can be on a hard linoleum floor and it’s been kind of relaxing to count Dylan’s breaths against his own. Not like he can ever tell Dylan no anyway.
“Shut up,” he whispers to Colton preemptively.
Colton grins at him, wide and sincere and boyish. “Not a chance. Too cute.”
“Wassa,” Dylan mumbles. He turns and buries his face in Tyler’s neck to shut out the noise. Tyler sighs, and resigns himself to being mocked for the next five eternities – which is probably an underestimate, but he’s feeling hopeful.
“Way too cute,” Colton reiterates. His fingers are flying over the keys of his phone, probably tweeting to the entire world or sending it to Tyler’s mother or something. “Holland just sent back a bunch of gibberish.”
“So much dislike for you all,” Tyler says, which is when Dylan snorts himself awake and cracks Tyler under the chin with his skull.
“Don’t be a big baby,” Dylan says. His mouth is twisted up at the side, though, apologetic, and his fingers are gentle when he tilts Tyler’s head back and presses the ice pack to Tyler’s jaw.
Tyler glares ineffectively.
“I said I was sorry, like, fifteen times.” With his free hand, Dylan prods gingerly at the growing bruise around the ice pack. He whistles. “Wow, that’s gonna be a doozy.”
“That’s because you have a hard fucking head,” Tyler mutters.
“Grouchy,” Dylan observes, unbothered. He lifts the icepack to peek under and winces sympathetically. “Oh, man. I am gonna buy you so many pizzas to make up for this once you can chew again.”
Tyler’s stomach grumbles. “Not cool, Dylan.”
Dylan’s fingers tilt his head to the side again, and the icepack settles back into position. “What do you want instead?”
Tyler considers. Dylan feels bad enough as it is, for as much as he jokes. It’s all fun and games until Dylan inadvertently injures someone, and then he acts like he’s a fucking serial murderer for two days after. It used to happen all the time when they were living together; Posey’s face would get in the way while Dylan was taking a turn on Mario Kart and the night would end in bloody towels and Dylan covertly bringing Posey bags of M&Ms and hoarded DVDs.
“Well,” Tyler says slowly, drawing it out for maximum effect and trying out a smile, “you could always kiss it better.”
He expects Dylan to laugh it off, make a joke, maybe call him a dick. He doesn’t expect to have the icepack abruptly drop into his lap, or to know what Dylan’s lips feel like pressed against the angle of his jaw.
“There.” Dylan exhales, stirring the hair above Tyler’s ear. “All better.”
His jaw doesn’t hurt anymore, that’s for sure.
He turns his head and catches Dylan’s mouth with his, licks a shine onto Dylan’s lower lip until Dylan’s breath shakes out of him. It’s easy to lift his hand and tilt Dylan’s head until they can slot together better, easier still to kiss deep and hard when Dylan catches up and surges into him. They part for a breath, and Dylan makes a noise Tyler’s never heard before, aching and hungry.
“Wow, so, that’s new,” he says.
“Yeah,” Tyler agrees quickly, and pulls until Dylan’s forced to grab his shoulders so they don’t overbalance again.
Tyler can’t remember ever kissing like this before: he feels like his whole body is raw and tight, and every ragged breath Dylan pulls in against his cheek is goddamn infuriating because it means a second he’s left without that mouth on his. He’s hard, the ice pack’s long fallen to the floor, and the Dylan that’s looking at him is a stranger, eyes all pupil, wholly focused. He licks his sore lips and watches Dylan track the movement intently, and then mimic it.
“Oh god,” Tyler moans breathily, and he kind of sounds like a porno, but he’s unable to give anything beyond a slight fuck. Dylan’s pink tongue is much more important. “Oh my god.”
Dylan’s hands leave his shoulders, and Tyler honestly thinks they’re going to reach down and undo his fly because Dylan seems to be either shrinking or sinking to the floor, so he grabs them both and tries to catch his breath. They’re at work, he tells himself. They’re at work, and someone could walk in at any moment and catch Dylan down on his knees, sucking Tyler’s cock like he clearly wants to.
“We,” he tells Dylan, “are going to do this more later,” and ignores the way his own voice breaks.
But Dylan’s still a monstrous asshole, apparently, because he says, “Sure, yeah, okay,” and, “If we’re not doing this right now, though, I’m gonna go jerk off. Because, wow.”
“Hate you,” Tyler says, and presses the heel of his palm to his cock.
“Clearly a lie.” Dylan doesn’t even have the good grace to look sorry. He leans in and kisses Tyler again, slower and hotter and more drugging than before. “Mmm,” he says decisively as they pull apart, “yes, absolutely going to jerk off.”
Tyler likes to think he knows Dylan pretty well; to be fair, once you’ve seen someone with the flu, dripping bodily fluids everywhere and whining pitifully between snotting on your shoulder and blowing his nose in your ear, there’s not much mystery left. He’s seen Dylan go three days without showering or putting on deodorant, he’s seen Dylan cry, he’s seen Dylan sick from shoving too many Swedish Fish in his mouth at once. He’d go so far as to say that Dylan’s one of the few people he can actually read on a regular basis. He doesn’t know this new Dylan who seems to tease as easily as breathing, though.
There’s definitely going to be some footage on the cutting room floor this season.
“So,” Holland says to him a few days later. Her eyebrow ticks up.
“No,” he tells her.
She wanders off after a minute of studying his face, grinning. He absolutely does not want to know what conclusions she came to, or who she’s going to tell. He particularly doesn’t want to know if anyone’s realized he’s been fighting an erection for going on a week because Dylan O’Brien is a wretched human being.
Dylan seems to be glorying in driving him insane: he’ll run his fingers up the nape of Tyler’s neck, or kiss him hard and rough right before they leave one of their trailers, digging his nails into Tyler’s hips like claws.
It’s unfair, mostly because Tyler is too dazed to reciprocate, which Dylan clearly knows and uses to his advantage. He’s in his element, more and more confident of his welcome every time Tyler can’t help but lean into a hand on his shoulder, can’t stop a shudder. He’s constantly on, throwing out improvs faster than Tyler or the director can keep up with, making Tyler bust out laughing just as often as he’s forcing Tyler’s body to betray him on camera.
It looks maddeningly good on him.
They make out against anything that can give them even the slightest hint of privacy; Dylan has a permanent flush just under his cheekbones.
“This is not okay,” Tyler pants once, between kisses. “This is not okay and I’m not okay and my dick is gonna fall off.”
“Is not,” Dylan says.
“It is,” Tyler insists. “You’re killing me, man.”
Dylan pulls back far enough to give him a good, thorough once-over. “You seem fine to me,” he says. “Buh-dum-ch.”
Tyler groans. “Oh my god, way to keep that moment sexy, Dylan.”
“Whatever, you love it.” Dylan nips at Tyler’s throat, and Tyler’s hips jerk feebly, proving Dylan’s point.
“Why are you doing this to me,” Tyler complains. “You were all ready to suck my cock the other day, and now I can’t even get you to take your shirt off.”
Dylan crowds in closer, his hand dropping to inch across Tyler’s stomach. His fingers dip under the waistband of Tyler’s pants and boxers. “I could always get you off right now in your jeans,” Dylan offers, hoarsely. And this is definitely another thing Tyler never knew Dylan could do: talk so fucking filthy Tyler’s eyes roll back in his head. “I could do it. You’d get yourself all dirty with come and have to duck into the bathroom to clean your sensitive cock off with paper towels and hand soap.”
“Shit,” Tyler whimpers, so fucking close it hurts.
Dylan retreats, taking his hand with him, and lets Tyler sag back against the wall behind him, winded. He feels worked over, overwhelmed; he takes comfort in the fact that Dylan’s shirt isn’t hiding anything today, too short to cover the bulge in his pants.
“Yeah, okay, seeing your point,” Dylan concedes finally, strangled. “Tonight? Tonight. Totally having sex with you tonight, come hell or high ratings.”
They make out two more times before the end of the day, which is just so unfair Tyler can’t even express his frustration. Holland laughs at him almost continuously for the fifteen minutes he’s sitting in one of the chairs on set waiting for his scene, which doesn’t reassure him about his apparent physical state, but he evidently sells his part well enough to appease everyone and is let go only an hour after Dylan’s last shot.
He’s not proud of how fast he drives them back to Dylan’s new apartment, but he’s also not proud of the fact that Dylan still has pants on, so.
They’re barely in the door before Dylan has him out of his shirt, and getting down the hall to his bedroom is a pipe dream at best. It’s pure luck that shuts the door behind them. They sink down against one of the walls, Dylan straddling his lap, jeans half-undone, shirt off one shoulder and clinging stubbornly to his other arm; Tyler has his fingers clenched in the leg of Dylan’s pants, and he can’t keep up with how furiously Dylan’s eating at his mouth.
He half-laughs against Dylan’s cheek when he manages to shimmy out of his own jeans, relieved and so, so ready for more.
“Dylan,” Tyler says, “Dylan, come on, get those – goddamnit – if I don’t come in the next ninety seconds, I swear –”
Together, they work the rest of their clothes off, and Dylan gets a hand around Tyler’s dick almost immediately, long fingers curled tight and sure. He’s got the wrong rhythm at first, but he’s a fast learner, and he keeps his eyes locked on Tyler’s face, intent, watching every reaction Tyler can’t hide. When he catches the crown of Tyler’s cockhead with his thumbnail, it’s like Tyler goes momentarily insane.
“Come on,” Dylan says, wicked, “come on, come for me if you’re so fucking impatient.”
He does, helplessly, holding onto Dylan’s biceps with everything he has, pleading, “Don’t stop, oh my god, Dylan, fuck,” and Dylan doesn’t stop, doesn’t stop, wrings it out of him until he’s aching and sore and empty.
“Wow,” he hears Dylan say faintly, after a minute.
He grins, leans his forehead against Dylan’s chest and tries to get his breath back. “Wow,” he agrees.
“That was,” Dylan says. “Were you, like, saving that up or something? That was amazing.”
“Jesus, Dylan,” Tyler mutters, embarrassed, “shut up.”
Dylan squirms in closer, his cock bumping against Tyler’s thigh as he settles in. “You wouldn’t like me if I shut up.” He takes Tyler’s hand in his own, and settles it on his flat stomach. “Feel free to take a hint,” he adds.
He pushes until Dylan has no choice but to lean backwards and spread his legs out to balance himself. Tyler should probably be worrying about condoms, but this is Dylan, whose medical records he knows as well as his own at this point, so he bends over and sucks Dylan’s thick cock into his mouth.
He’s not exactly great at this – he hasn’t had any practice, really – but Dylan’s always been good at giving him cues, so he lets Dylan guide the length of his strokes and how tight he purses his lips and when he scrapes a little with his teeth. It’s way more hot than Tyler’s ready to admit to when Dylan’s fingers settle at the nape of his neck and push. Tyler enjoys himself, scratches down Dylan’s sides a few times, reaches up to touch whatever he feels like touching while Dylan’s too distracted to feel self-conscious.
It’s over almost before Tyler’s ready to give it up – a soft, cut-off, “Ah, Tyler!” that’s as good as a shiver down his spine – but Dylan tastes familiar, if not good, which is kind of a consolation all on its own.
Dylan doesn’t give him time to dwell, though, yanking Tyler up bodily with more strength than most people give him credit for, and kissing him boldly, again and again until Tyler can’t feel his lips.
They get to the bed eventually.
Tyler’s not much good at hiding things, for being an actor, and Dylan’s not the first to accuse him of it: he laughs too often, smiles too wide, looks at Dylan a little too closely when he’s supposed to be doing something else. To be fair, it’s entirely Dylan’s fault. Tyler knows how obvious he is, but he can’t stop himself because Dylan is Dylan and does ridiculous shit twenty-four hours a day that makes it impossible for Tyler to care.
“Yeah,” he tells the interviewer, “Dylan’s great, he’s hilarious, I love – I love working with him. It’s hard to get through a scene with him there.”