Thomas's pov

Dylan and I didn't leave the trailer that night.

(No, not like that. Get your mind out of the gutter, geeze.)

After I put the glasses on top of the fridge, making a mental note to clean it up later, things got pretty awkward--well, kind of. It wasn't awkward in the sense that either of us were uncomfortable, just awkward because neither of us knew what to say or how to act anymore.

Over the course of the past two-ish weeks, Dylan and I had had a very limited amount of actual, legitimate conversations--so few in fact, that I could count all of them on one hand. Very, very few times could I recall being in the same room as him without one of us mocking the other.

But making fun of him wasn't exactly on the table right now. That's not what friends did--or acquaintances for that matter. As much as I wanted to (and God did I want to) I couldn't be snarky. So what was I supposed to say?

Why the heck was apologizing even invented? Why couldn't I be guilt free? I'm Thomas Brodie-Sangster, I'm known for being unapologetic unless it affects my career. Or at least, I was. Then Dylan had to come waltzing into my life and basically do the Salsa all over that idea. Stupid Dylan. Honestly, it's his fault that this is all my fault.

Am I supposed to thank him for giving me a chance? The awkwardness in the room was crawling down my throat and resting right over my trachea, making it impossible to even try to speak. I had to say something, but what was I supposed to say to the guy who I'm now acquaintances-with-even-though-he-probably-still-hates-me-but-he-is-too-nice-to-reject-my-apology? I fumbled for words, trying to figure out where to start.

"So...now what?" Dylan voiced my thoughts aloud, scratching at the back of his neck.

Though I don't personally apologize, my characters in movies often do. I thought for a second, trying to recall what my characters did after apology scenes. Then it clicked.

"How about we just start over?" I suddenly offered, taking a step closer. "We can pretend like none of this ever happened. You know nothing about me and I know nothing about you."

Satisfied, I held out a hand, but Dylan hesitated. His eyes flickered to my face, then back to my outstretched hand. He seemed as if he was internally arguing with himself, his eyes becoming a cloudy brown. Then they cleared as his mind did too, and he extended his arm to me as well.

"Hi Dylan," I said as his soft palm slotted with my mine. "I'm Thomas Brodie-Sangster. It's nice to meet you."

Dylan's big brown eyes watched our hands. Finally he looked up, looking me dead in the eye as he said, "I hope I can say the same."

My lip quirked up with his reference to our first encounter. His words didn't anger me this time, nor catch me off guard. It was exactly what I expected, if not better than I hoped. His words proved that he really was willing to put the past behind us. He couldn't trust me yet, but hopefully, one day, he'd be able to look me in the eye and respond, 'I know I can say the same' instead.

Then I smiled, wider than I thought I could. Dylan almost looked surprised, but he didn't comment.

Why did I suddenly feel so warm? (No, not down there. Again, get your mind out of the gutter, geeze.) My chest felt light and everything suddenly looked so much more vibrant, and I just--I felt so good.

I knew it was Dylan's choice that was making me feel so...weird. But why? Why did I care so much about his opinion of me?

Oh, the bet. Right.

But the longer I thought of the bet, I was sure that wasn't right. Until now, the bet hadn't crossed my mind once all night.

Which meant that there was a teeny, tiny part of me that was glad he would attempt to be my acquaintance (but it was miniscule, like, almost not even there, I swear).

My thoughts turned back to the situation, particularly where Dylan and I were still shaking hands. Dylan's hand was warm and strong, and my own nestled perfectly beside it. (Okay but seriously, I need to stress how great Dylan's hands are. I'm not kidding, God spent extra time on those babies. If I wasn't gay, I'd probably be Dylan's-hands-sexual instead) When we finally let go, I felt the air between us clear, and the awkwardness returned.

I fiddled with the hem of my jacket, again trying to come up with a new conversation starter. I wanted to get to know him a bit, but the only questions I could think of were slightly stalkerish. At least, I figured, so, tell me every little detail about you, your family, and your friends, may put us off on the wrong foot.

But it seemed Dylan was a bit more of a conversationalist than me, asking, "Um, do you want to go get dry clothes or something?" His voice wavered shyly in the broken silence. "We could sneak into the clothing department if you'd like. It's not far from here."

"I'm fine," I replied. "Thanks for looking out for me, Mum."

Though I mocked him, deep down, I thought his offer to be rather sweet. It was nice of him to look out for me and my sopping wet body, especially since it was probably still taking a lot out of him to be nice to me.

"Fine," Dylan relented, falling back on to the couch behind him. "But if you get a cold, I get to say I told you so."

Ah, so there's the Dylan I know. I rolled my eyes. "You sound more and more like my mother everyday."

Dylan hummed, but didn't reply. Unsure what to say, I stepped towards the couch Dylan sat on.

Dylan suddenly shot up. "Woah, woah, woah!" he yelped, hands up in the air.

"What?" I asked dumbly, raising my hands as if I were guilty of something.

Dylan came closer. "What do you think you're doing?"

Taken aback, I wasn't sure what the heck he was talking about. My confusion must have been evident, because Dylan rolled his eyes impatiently.

Without saying a word, he widely gestured towards the floor behind me. My eyebrow arched and I slowly turned around, eyes scanning our dimly lit trailer. Nothing looked out of the ordinary. The table at the far end of the room still held scattered papers, some clothes were thrown haphazardly, and the trashcan nearly overflowed. Just as it always did.

I turned back to Dylan, shaking my head in confusion. He rolled his eyes, striding past me to emphasize what exactly he was pointing at. After making a rather overly dramatized exaggeration of arm movements, his hands gestured towards the floor right behind me. I looked down.

There, on the floor, crumpled in an elongated heap, lay the boundary blanket.

I had nearly forgotten about Dylan's attempt to separate the trailer. I'd only been in here a select few times, and my mind always seemed to skip from the floor to whatever nonsense I was currently dealing with. I had completely disregarded it, and until this point, I thought Dylan had too.

"What?" I asked. He couldn't be serious.

Dylan crossed his arms over his chest, pouting in a don't test me manner. Nope, he was serious.

"You're crossing your side of the trailer," he confided. He looked at me as if I were some criminal charged with first degree murder. Chill your peaches, Dylan.

I held up my hands, instantly thinking up a multitude of different responses. Yet I held my tongue, deciding now wasn't the time to start a pointless argument. We have to pick our battles after all, and this one just wasn't worth fighting.

I took a step back onto my side of the room, and Dylan smiled triumphantly. I squinted at him, muttering, "You're a twat waffle" under my breath. I wasn't mad though, surprisingly. I wasn't even annoyed. At this point I just kind of expected Dylan to be Dylan and this kind of behavior felt familiar for him. It even felt normal.

I collapsed onto a chair on the opposite side of the room. Despite having my back rest against the wall, I noticed I didn't sit all that far from Dylan on the opposite end of the trailer. This trailer really was too small for two people, and I wondered (not for the first time) why I managed to have such bad luck with this movie.

I opened my mouth to say so to Dylan, but I paused before any words slipped past my lips. Was it bad luck? Then I shook my head, because of course it was unfortunate.

But doubt had already seeded in my stomach, and it didn't take long for unwanted thoughts to start blossoming in my mind.

No Thomas, it is bad luck that you got cornered by Reggie.

No Thomas, it is bad luck that this is a difficult bet to win.

No Thomas, it is bad luck that you have to work with someone you hate.

No Thomas, you can't think meeting Dylan was good luck.

"Hello? Earth to Thomas?"

But no matter how many times I tried to reassure myself, my thoughts kept changing.

Was it bad luck that Reggie approached me? Was it bad luck that I was given an opportunity to talk to Dylan? Was it really so bad working on set?

And worst of all:

What kind of person snuggles, and buys clothes and coffee for, and goes out of their to be nice to, and loses track of time with someone they allegedly hate?

Did you ever really hate him to begin with?

"Thomas!" Dylan yelped. I jumped out of my head as my body jolted in the seat.

"What?"

Dylan sighed. "I said, 'so tell me about yourself,'" he repeated.

Despite the fact that I had been thinking along the lines of a similar question earlier, his question still caught me off guard after disappearing inside my head for so long. "Why?" I asked. My tone leveled in a way as to show that I wasn't at all annoyed or trying to be rude, I was just confused.

Dylan rolled his eyes. "You asked me to forgive you. I'm trying dude, but it's difficult when the only way I can judge your character is through press conferences and what I've heard from my friends. I don't know you, or what you stand for. So," he paused, "tell me who Thomas Sangster really is."

He leaned forward in his chair as my eyebrow arched up. "Isn't this a bit cliché?" I asked. Dylan huffed and rolled his eyes again, but didn't reply. I still wasn't completely comfortable with this idea, so I asked, "How about we play a get-to-know-you game? Like twenty questions, but not twenty questions because, let's be real, that game is totally for twelve year olds when--"

"Thomas! You're rambling," Dylan interrupted, a small smile on his pink lips.

"Right, sorry," I blushed faintly. "Shall we?" Dylan nodded.

"What's your favorite color?" I was happy he was willing to participate, but I still gave him a seriously look. He glared right back, daring me to answer the question.

"Yellow," I answered honestly. Dylan's eyebrows shot up in surprise, so I asked, "What?"

"Yellow is such a cheery color, and you know, you're you," Dylan explained.

I immediately fired back in self defense. "Well what's your favorite color, Mr. Sunshine? Black, to match your soul?"

Dylan smiled. "Blue, actually. Though you make a good guess."

I half-smiled back. Deep down, I was thankful that our conversations were now much quicker, diffusing the awkward tension in the room. Not to mention that it was also distracting me from my traitorous thoughts.

I decided to ask the next question. "What's the worst nickname you've ever had?"

"Dilly-Dally," Dylan said without missing a beat. I raised an eyebrow to silently ask if he were joking, and when he shook his head, I burst into a quiet laughter. "Hey, don't make fun of me! What's yours?"

I stopped laughing immediately. Grudgingly, I muttered, "Trombone."

Dylan grinned, two dimples forming on his cheeks. "Cute."

"Shut up, Dilly-Dally."

Dylan rolled his eyes, then asked another question, "Why'd you leave the hotel in your Tazmanian Devil underwear?" He glanced down with a scrunched up nose, clearly scrutinizing my fashion sense.

"I was in a rush!" I exclaimed, sitting up higher in my chair. Then I smirked. "Why, do you like them?"

A wave of confidence rose up in my chest, as well as a strange urge to make Dylan laugh. I stood from my seat and turned to face the wall, giving my butt a cute little wiggle at Dylan. I tossed a wink over my shoulder, actually grinning this time when Dylan chuckled.

"Oh, yeah. The Tazmanian Devil really turns me on," he joked back.

I jokingly groaned as I sat down, covering my face with my hands. My voice came out slightly muffled when I responded, "Dylan, your gay is showing."

"Says the boy literally wiggling his butt at me," Dylan quipped back, but his response was broken by my laughter. He joined in too, and in that moment, any tension left in the room finally dissipated.

Much of the night continued exactly like that; not a question went by where we didn't bicker or judge the other, and I was surprised to find I was actually enjoying whatever this was. (Seriously, how do I label this? Awkward get together? Impromptu meeting? A play-date?) Neither of us asked any questions we felt would press any sort of boundaries, clearly respecting the other's privacy. Yet it was fun asking pointless questions and listening to old stories, and that warm feeling in my stomach never quite faded. Hours passed like seconds, and I couldn't recall a time in the past six months where I had felt as satisfied as I did now.

And then Dylan asked about the restaurant.

At first, I was caught off guard. His voice was hesitant but stern, demanding an answer he knew I wouldn't want to give. We had edged closer over the course of the night, sitting just feet away from each other on the floor, face to face. He nudged my foot with his own, saying "Why'd you scare Jamal off at dinner?"

I sputtered, unsure of the honest answer myself. I couldn't explain what had happened even if I tried, but I had a feeling Dylan wouldn't believe that.

So I lied.

"He gave me a bad feeling," I shrugged nonchalantly. "I can't help that he was shady."

"And your solution was to humiliate me and call me ugly?" Dylan deadpanned, still clearly disbelieving of what I was saying. I continued playing along with my lie.

"Yeah...sorry about that. I didn't mean to say you were unattractive."

Dylan smirked, and my stomach dropped. "Does that mean you do find me attractive?"

I rolled my eyes, pulling out my phone. "I never said that."

I clicked the lock button, revealing that it was six-twenty in the morning. I sighed, getting to my feet. Dylan understood what I was doing, and a faint look of surprise crossed his face. I guess he lost track of time too.

"You never not said it," he said, and I squinted down at him, trying to puzzle out what he just said.

Dylan's big doe eyes were lit in amusement and curiosity. His hair was ruffled and sticking up at odd angles, dark bags were forming under his eyes, and his mouth hung open as he waited for me to reply.

Then all of a sudden, like being struck by lightning, it hit me that yeah, Dylan O'Brien was pretty darn attractive.

And it hit me hard.

Don't get too excited, please and thank you. There's absolutely nothing wrong with recognizing that someone has a nice face. That's all I was doing: recognizing.

"On a scale from one to ten, how attractive am I?" Dylan asked me, his eyes twinkling with mirth. He smirked as I helped him to his feet, eyes never leaving my face.

I left the question up in the air as I shuffled around the trailer, cleaning up the mess we made in the duration of the night. Dylan patiently waited behind me, quiet and content.

As I neared the door, I finally turned back to him. He met my eyes, and I smirked.

"Eleven," I said. Then I winked, hollering over my shoulder at a gaping Dylan as I left, "Come on, Dilly-Dally, or we'll be late to set!"

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Dylan wouldn't freaking shut up as we hurried out of the trailer park, now in a rush so that we wouldn't be late to work. His incessant nagging and questions of what the heck was that supposed to mean were quickly grinding on me though, so I pretended to forget that the past situation even occurred. I'm pretty sure my ignorance only further annoyed Dylan, so needless to say I felt like a winner as we left through the open gates of the trailer park.

"You Thomas Brodie-Sangster!" A voice called, interrupting Dylan's grumbles behind me. I turned, seeing my good ole' friend, the Chinese woman security guard.

My smile fell when I realized she wasn't even looking at me, but at Dylan instead, as if he were Thomas Sangster. I rolled my eyes and kept walking, because really, this lady would never get it right.

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Dylan and I went our separate ways once we drove back to the hotel so that we could freshen up before call-time. I quickly showered, brushed my teeth, got a kick-arse outfit on, and even then, I had time to spare.

I was ruffling through my suitcase when a small leather-bound book caught my eyes. Confused, I grabbed it, flipping through the blank pages in bewilderment. Like a slap to the face, I recalled that it was the journal Reggie Mills had given me back when he set the parameters for the bet.

I had completely forgotten about the thing, evident by the way it had been crammed into the furthest corner of my suitcase. Biting my lip, I scanned the room for a pen.

As soon as I located one, I made a few notes in the journal, using my lightheartedness of the day to reflect how I currently viewed my situation.

13/5/16

Note to Self:

Dylan's not as terrible as I first perceived him to be. I know, seems foolish to already be second guessing my original opinions on the boy, but I can't help but think that maybe I judged him too quickly. And maybe he judged me too quickly. After spending so much time hating him (I'll fill you in later) it was nice to have a few good hours of light hearted conversation. Perhaps this bet won't be as difficult as I first thought, should he agree with my changing opinions.

On another note, the bet

My head shot up as my hand froze mid-sentence. Someone was banging on my door.

Heart beating fast as if I were guilty of something, I shoved the journal under my mattress. Then I crept towards the door and swung it open, coming face to face with Kaya.

"Hi Thomas!" She burst as she let herself into my room.

"Come on in," I mocked sarcastically, closing the door behind her.

If she heard me, she didn't reply. "As much as I love you, I'm not visiting for your enjoyment. Couple of things; one, Wes told me to tell you that there's another new script printed, and to go pick it up when you can."

"Okay, but--"

"Two," she continued without pause, "We start filming on Thursday, just to let you know."

"This Thur--"

"Three, how'd the make-up with Dylan go? You're still alive, so I'm assuming it went alright," here she paused to take a breath, looking at me as if I had chosen to be the subject of her relentless speech.

"It was fine. More than fine, actually. He agreed to be acquaintances," I quickly said, fearing that she would interrupt me again.

Kaya grinned. "Good!" She said enthusiastically.

She glanced around my room, and for a second, I panicked that she would find the journal. That was foolish, of course, because it was clearly hidden from sight, but that didn't stop my heart from skipping a beat when she suddenly turned towards me.

"One more thing," she said, eyes twinkling with mischief, "Do you own a Nerf gun?"

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A/N

Yes I am aware that this is like the third chapter in a row from Thomas's point of view and yes I easily could have posted this chapter earlier and yes it's rather boring and yes the ending is abrupt and no I haven't started the next chapter yet. But hey, it happens.

Also get ready for some time skips in the next couple chapters because genius me decided f.i.v.e freaking months was a good time stamp when I'm currently 14 chapters in and only two weeks into the plot ugh woe is me

Alsooooo I'm v nervous about this chappy because I feel like it's too soon for this new stage in their relationship but the words just kinda came out so I rolled with it woo

I've decided to do a joke in every author's note from here on out so here we go:

What did the fish say when he swam into a cement wall? "Dam" ;)

Thanks for all the love last chapter, I hope you are feeling great and are taking good care of yourself because I love you a lot too

Until next time,

//sam\\