Chapter 5

Dr. Bergin Kern is supposedly Ryder Oak's finest. But Dylan doesn't give a shit. Dylan has to admit, though, that this doctor isn't a typical shrink – at least not how Dylan imagines shrinks should be like. Not that he has met many. 

The doctor doesn't just take notes, or nod once in a while and ask how Dylan feels about… well, certain things. He gets into Dylan's head, breaking down the walls that Dylan has built around him. It's infuriating as fuck and Dylan doubts the doctor's methods are even effective.

"I hear you've been running every other day. That's good," the doctor says, his expression impassive, gray eyes boring holes into Dylan's forehead. "You do look a lot better."

”I don't," Dylan mumbles before he lets his mind wander into a wide, empty space. He doesn't hear what the doctor says next, is not even aware if seconds or minutes or maybe hours are rolling by. His thoughts remain on a cloud where he hovers away from the harsh reality his life has become.

Dr. Kern's "Maybe you should try playing ball again," yanks Dylan out of his reverie. His head snaps up to meet the doctor's gaze and there's something in Dr. Kern's eyes that makes him want to sink into the couch and disappear.

"You were an excellent player, Dylan," the doctor adds when Dylan says nothing, voice somewhat dream-like. "I know you have an injury, but it's not like I'm asking you to play pro. Maybe you can try teaching kids how to play." 

"I can't."

The doctor cocks his head a little, watching Dylan like he's trying to subject him to some kind of mind-fuck or whatever. "You can't or you won't?"

Can't, won't. Can't, won't. The words rolled around Dylan's head, clawing at the back of his mind. Can't, won't. Can't, won't.

A small part of him knows that the doctor and everyone in the center are only trying to help him find his way back to the life he once knew. But… 

He doesn't need their help, doesn't want to go back. He just wants all this shit to end.

A few soundless minutes stretch between them, offering Dylan the momentary solace that he so desperately needs. Then Dr. Kern speaks again, asks, "What are you afraid of, Dylan?" and leans back on his chair, studying Dylan as if he's an interesting piece of art.

"Maybe you should try a new hobby then. Painting perhaps?" Dr. Kern encourages with a small smile but Dylan can still see a faint shadow of the meddlesome bastard he really is. "There are several activities in the center that might spark your interest."

Yeah right. Dylan snorts. Out of all the ridiculous ideas he has heard from this doctor, this tops them all.

Not seemingly bothered with his reaction or his obvious lack of interest, Dr. Kern adds, "Or maybe you should take small steps at a time. Meet the other residents. Make friends. Live life." 

Dylan doesn't meet Dr. Kern's eyes when he says, "What if I don't want to? Live life, that is."

"Why?" The familiar tension rises in the dense air and Dylan dreads to hear what the doctor is about to say next. "Because you lost somebody?"

"Shut up," Dylan hisses. He feels control slipping away.

"There are people who care about you, Dylan. They want to help you go through this. You're not alone." 

"I said shut up!" Dylan lunged at him, grabbing the front of the doctor's shirt. The fabric crinkles in his fists. He's too angry to even hear the door open and only realizes that there are other people — orderlies, most likely — in the room when he feels hands and arms grabbing him. He's yanked away from the doctor who just sat still, looking unfazed. 

"It's alright. Relax," one of the orderlies says but Dylan struggles in their hold instead.

A sharp sting blooms on his arm, prompting his eyes to slide over to his right where he sees the syringe's needle sticking into his skin. Someone — a nurse — coos, "It's okay. It's okay," before Dylan's head starts to feel heavy that he can't keep his eyes open anymore.

*

There wasn't an easy way to describe how Dylan felt when he found out Lance was having an endorsement party. In Dax City, of all places, which was just a thirty-minute drive from where he lived. And he wasn't fucking informed.

"Seriously, Stradson. I don't fucking care that I wasn't invited. What pisses me off is the fact I didn't even know you're in fucking D.C. and I don't have a fucking clue what you've been up to lately." 

Despite the curses he'd been spitting out, Dylan tried to keep his voice down, afraid that occupants of nearby rooms might call security and get him thrown out of the hotel before he was even done dealing with his boyfriend.

"I didn't even know about the party, Dylan, until like, five hours ago," Lance said, arms flailing. "It was a surprise that my agent put together."

"Fine." Two long strides were all it took for Dylan to stand right in front of Lance. "Then do you mind explaining to me why you've been staying in a hotel for the past two days when you could have just gone to my place?"

There was a flicker of guilt or… something in Lance's eyes. "I…" Words seemed to fail him and he tore his gaze away from Dylan.

"Yeah. I thought so." Dylan's shoulders sagged but his exasperation had not yet deflated. "Have you been avoiding me?"

Lance's head snapped up. "No," he said, eyes boring into Dylan's own as if he was forcing the sincerity into Dylan's head. "It's Jackson who booked this room for me. He said I deserved some time alone after all the hard work and…"

Dylan felt like someone had dumped cold water on his head when he saw the tears welling up in Lance's eyes. "Fuck." He turned sharply and stepped away from Lance. "What are we doing, Lance?" He ran a hand through his hair, willing the rage boiling inside him to subside.

"I'm sorry." Lance's voice sounded so small that it was enough to create a crack on the wall of Dylan's ire. "I had a lot of things in my mind lately and…. Maybe we um… maybe we should um… you know, take a break from each other, let things cool off for a while so we can um… we can both focus on our careers or—or something."

Anger was quickly replaced by anxiety and Dylan felt blood rushing to his head, his heart pounding against his ribcage. "Are you fucking breaking up with me?" The words came out so harshly that it made Lance cringe. "Is that what your fucking agent told you to do?"

A voice from somewhere way deep in the recesses of Dylan's mind told Dylan that this wasn't the right approach; that he should at least calm down and talk things through with Lance. 

"No, it's not that. It's… I don't know anymore." A single tear rolled down Lance's cheek and Dylan's eyes followed it, watched it pool over the ridge of Lance's upper lip.

"Somehow I feel that your agent is trying to run your life and you're letting them." Dylan must have hit a nerve, judging from Lance's downcast gaze but Dylan didn't have the heart to stick around and find out if he was right. 

Without another word, he made his way to the door. He fought the urge to look back, ignoring Lance's "Dylan, wait, I…" and carried his stubborn pride and aching heart out of the room.