[He murmurs softly, more to himself than in protest. The water's cold and the ice gets in the way, but his fingers graze over the side of the glass and send beads of condensation racing down the side. His heart jumps when Derek kneels and his eyes widen slightly, this panicked switch in his head flicked. It's like somehow what he was just thinking about has leaked into reality again, and he's not sure he likes it. He does like it, really, but not like this. Not when he feels dry mouthed and edging on frantic. If he had another hit of coke, maybe...
Tate absently worms his fingers into the pocket of his jeans, looking for what he swiped at the party. He's distracted enough by the flare of anxiety in his head that it doesn't register immediately that his pocket is empty. He just frowns at Derek, feeling an itch in his skull he tries to ignore. But past a point, he can't, and he pulls up his legs onto the bed. Puts a sliver of space between them that feels like a mile, and he wonders if he's ruining it. Ruining this.]
Don't apologize.
[He grunts, digging the heels of his sneakers into the bed to push himself back a little more. To then flop backwards and spread out across the bed the wrong way, arms stretched out at his sides. It feels vulnerable, belly up like this, but his stomach feels too hot from looking down at Derek from an angle that reeks of motel and back alley blowjobs. He breathes in slowly, trying to will away any hint of arousal.]
Most people want to talk after they fuck. You don't want to fuck, do you.
[Not accusatory.]
Me either. I mean, I could. But I'm tired of... I'm just tired.
no subject
[He murmurs softly, more to himself than in protest. The water's cold and the ice gets in the way, but his fingers graze over the side of the glass and send beads of condensation racing down the side. His heart jumps when Derek kneels and his eyes widen slightly, this panicked switch in his head flicked. It's like somehow what he was just thinking about has leaked into reality again, and he's not sure he likes it. He does like it, really, but not like this. Not when he feels dry mouthed and edging on frantic. If he had another hit of coke, maybe...
Tate absently worms his fingers into the pocket of his jeans, looking for what he swiped at the party. He's distracted enough by the flare of anxiety in his head that it doesn't register immediately that his pocket is empty. He just frowns at Derek, feeling an itch in his skull he tries to ignore. But past a point, he can't, and he pulls up his legs onto the bed. Puts a sliver of space between them that feels like a mile, and he wonders if he's ruining it. Ruining this.]
Don't apologize.
[He grunts, digging the heels of his sneakers into the bed to push himself back a little more. To then flop backwards and spread out across the bed the wrong way, arms stretched out at his sides. It feels vulnerable, belly up like this, but his stomach feels too hot from looking down at Derek from an angle that reeks of motel and back alley blowjobs. He breathes in slowly, trying to will away any hint of arousal.]
Most people want to talk after they fuck. You don't want to fuck, do you.
[Not accusatory.]
Me either. I mean, I could. But I'm tired of... I'm just tired.