Friend.

[Tate repeats the word under his breath, swept into the waves that take them away from the warehouse and the drugs that make the night beautiful to Tate. The sky twinkles and everything is vivid, sharp and direct. Even the air seems to have a taste to it, every noise and feeling fluid even when he's not. He jostles too hard to start moving, dropping the beer bottle to the ground in a crash of glass and he barely reacts. He looks down, but they're already leaving it behind. He murmurs 'shit' under his breath.

He stays close, like instructed, but it only lasts so long. Then he starts to drift away from concentrating on his steps, loosening his grip of Derek's sleeve to stop and rub at his eyes. They're nearly to the elevator and he's feeling regretful. He wants to go back.]

I left my shirt. Back there.

[He rubs his forearm, feeling goosebumps along his pale forearms. Then he scratches the inner sides, harder than he means to - pink welts rise from his nails. He looks to Derek again and seems oddly lost, black-brown eyes widely expressive in how he's looking for instruction again. He seems to silently find it in the features of Derek's face.]

Sorry. We're - We're going to your place, right. I just feel like I'm forgetting something.