[It takes a little while for Tate to make good on his promise and go outside. There's just a sea of people moving under the haze and lights of the club environment, made of a makeshift building. Dominants pull subs along by the sleeve and collar, and others just weave around together in self-indulged bliss. The place reeks of weed and smoke the most, but for people like Tate who are sweating out uppers and booze, noses like Derek's are bound to pick up on a lot.
He's outside in a black-shirt and jeans, having lost his overshirt somewhere in the early half of the evening. The earth radiates a certain warmth that keeps the sweat clinging to his brow, his blond hair tussled but damp. His eyes are glazed but his expression alternating between blank and soft smiles, head tilting to look up at the nearest humming light source like it's God Himself.
He's beyond wasted. If somehow possible, he looks like he's OD'd three times over - and maybe he has, with regenerative abilities and all the fury and pain he threw into getting blitzed. All his worries are forgotten, but the dangerous thing about Tate is that the scales are never truly balanced. The bliss, the joy, it can cascade away and leave that raw fury to replace it in an instant.
But for now, he smiles, distant behind the eyes but seemingly happy when he hears his name. He smells of other people, other bodies, of muted lust and thrown back liquor. He can barely stand straight, hovering with a slight lean side to side that he doesn't seem to notice. He even has a drink in his hand, brown beer bottle clasped by the neck and used to gesture at Derek when he recognizes him.]
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He's outside in a black-shirt and jeans, having lost his overshirt somewhere in the early half of the evening. The earth radiates a certain warmth that keeps the sweat clinging to his brow, his blond hair tussled but damp. His eyes are glazed but his expression alternating between blank and soft smiles, head tilting to look up at the nearest humming light source like it's God Himself.
He's beyond wasted. If somehow possible, he looks like he's OD'd three times over - and maybe he has, with regenerative abilities and all the fury and pain he threw into getting blitzed. All his worries are forgotten, but the dangerous thing about Tate is that the scales are never truly balanced. The bliss, the joy, it can cascade away and leave that raw fury to replace it in an instant.
But for now, he smiles, distant behind the eyes but seemingly happy when he hears his name. He smells of other people, other bodies, of muted lust and thrown back liquor. He can barely stand straight, hovering with a slight lean side to side that he doesn't seem to notice. He even has a drink in his hand, brown beer bottle clasped by the neck and used to gesture at Derek when he recognizes him.]
Hey, hey. Hey? You came. You really fucking came.