[Tate stares at Derek for a moment before pushing up on his elbow, turning away to sit up - facing the wall of the treehouse with Derek still to his side. He smooths both of his hands back through his hair, pulling it tight to his skull and dragging his nails over his scalp hard enough to sting. Part of him has been gunning for this moment, to have it out with Derek about this, but he also doesn't want to have it happen. Not now, not like this.]

He treats me like dirt - called me a suicidal loser, shit like that.

[Dirt Cobain. Yeah, Tate's petty - but he's also avoiding the fact he still fucked around with Reggie prior to that and that he's thrown his own punches. He runs his tongue along the inside of his cheek, voice hollowing out and his heartbeat getting weak the more stress he harbors in his chest.]

You don't know what that's like. To live - your life invisible until it all goes sideways. To get mocked after you're dead and not be able to tell the person off because they don't know - and they'll just call you a freaky ghost boy or something. People like him - they made me fucking furious when I was alive. Hurting people to fuel their own egos. I don't know why you like him at all.

[Hard to imagine Derek was just like him, probably. Birds of a feather.]

I hate him. I am comparing it.