[ as tate moves around his apartment, derek listens. he listens to his footsteps, quiet and barely there. he listens to the creaking crinkle of leather as tate pulls off his jacket, draping it over the cushions. he listens for tate's heartbeat, and he doesn't know if he's just worried and projecting and hearing things that aren't there, but it feels - irregular. unhealthy. frantic.
derek follows after him with the glass of water in hand, stepping towards the bedroom after tate, narrowing his eyes. if tate thinks this is empty, well - ]
You should see where I live back home.
[ at least this place has a roof. no open, burned holes that give way to open skies, stars drifting overhead and illuminating the ruins derek himself razed. no long stretches of concrete and dust, peppered only with rusty traincars and stacks of tarps and tires. derek nudges tate, gets his attention, then holds out the water. ]
no subject
derek follows after him with the glass of water in hand, stepping towards the bedroom after tate, narrowing his eyes. if tate thinks this is empty, well - ]
You should see where I live back home.
[ at least this place has a roof. no open, burned holes that give way to open skies, stars drifting overhead and illuminating the ruins derek himself razed. no long stretches of concrete and dust, peppered only with rusty traincars and stacks of tarps and tires. derek nudges tate, gets his attention, then holds out the water. ]
Drink.