Welcome To The Media (Dylmas AU)

6. We Just Don't Get Along

Thomas' pov

It was now or never.

My hand shook slightly as I reached out, forcing myself to break the tense shield that had enveloped my co-worker and I ever since our eyes met upon his entrance. I brushed two fingers along his shoulder in a vie for his attention, feeling a lump in my throat at the mere thought of talking to him. I swallowed roughly as his shoulders tensed slightly, and then he turned, leaving us face to face, just feet apart.

Our close proximity sent my senses into overdrive, my motions becoming robotic. I watched as his eyes widened imperceptibly, flashing a range of emotions I could not identify. Finally his face settled, but the look he was giving me made my stomach twist and my smirk dim, like he knew my secret reasoning behind approaching him in the first place.

I hadn't said anything yet, and his eyebrows raised in question. I gathered my wits, giving a breathy "Hi."

Dylan glanced to the side, seemingly perplexed. "Uh, hello?" His voice raised in question.

"I'm Thomas Brodie-Sangster." I stuck out my hand for him to shake, using my confident mask to hide the guilt that was already churning in my stomach. My reasons for introducing myself were immoral and wrong, but I knew I had no other choice; I might as well get started on this stupid bet as soon as possible.

Dylan made no move to grasp my hand. "Dylan," he introduced shortly, leaving no room for inquiry.

I awkwardly let my hand fall to my side, noticing a moment of triumph visible in Dylan's eyes at the motion. I cleared my throat, saying, "It's nice to meet you."

Dylan's eyes flared, though I had no idea why. Why was he being so closed-off? Did I do something wrong?

Apparently, in the eyes of Dylan O'Brien, I DID do something wrong, because he responded after a brief hesitation, "I wish I could say the same."

My mouth fell open in utter shock. Bloody hell, what did he just say? I searched his face for signs of joking but found only resentment written in the curve of his jaw.

Now, I've met a lot of people throughout my career; I've seen thousands of different reactions to my appearance, I've witnessed tears and happiness and awe. Yet never once, have I ever, ever, been given this response to just a brief introductions. What the hell was his problem? I struggled to come up with a response, and Dylan clearly noticed, but finally I managed an indignant, "Excuse me?"

Dylan bit his lip, and against my own will I followed the motion with my eyes. He released it slowly and our eyes met again, this time with a softer stare. He took a deep breath to reign in some self control, running his fingers through his hair. "Sorry," he muttered. "I'm not usually that blunt."

For some reason, his apology had no effect on me, no matter how sincere he sounded. "You should be fucking sorry," I growled angrily. He could apologize a million times, I was still pissed that he had the nerve to say something like that when he was the newbie and I was the king. "That was rude as hell."

His jaw tensed. "Yeah, that's why I apologized," he said in a rather strained voice.

I rolled my eyes. "Well, just a word of advice from someone way more experienced than you: lose the attitude. No one likes a douchebag."

"I can tell you don't practice what you preach," he replied in a huff, voice quieted like he didn't want me to hear.

My face twitched. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Dylan glanced around. "Well, it's quite hypocritical for you to tell me to lose the attitude when yours is just as bad, if not worse, than mine."

"My attitude is tolerable," I defended. The angrier his words made me, the worse my comebacks became.