[The longer Tate lays prone, the heavier his limbs start to feel. He's tired in a way that exhausts him. The uppers wear off and the exhaustion returns like a bullet to the forehead. He hasn't slept in a day or two at least, insomnia strangling him even when he lays like this and stares up at the ceiling like he's expecting to see an expanse of stars. His body is tired but his brain won't rest, it won't sleep, and he closes his eyes almost pained. What's better, this? Or the nightmares?

He hears Derek speak and blinks open his eyes, looking at him by the window with vague interest. His figure looms there, looking so put together and certain in a world Tate feels so lost in. His eyes narrow when Derek tells him things that he feels conflict with reality. Derek wants to be something to him and yet he chose Stiles first and foremost - was he that... screwed up at the time? Why's Derek still trying.

Tate drapes his arm over his eyes, shielding his expression from view. His heart still hammers in his chest, breathing deep and even.]

I wanted to just... feel okay. Feel good. Not lonely, or sad. I thought it might be nice to be around people but I just felt farther away from everyone the closer I got. I want to go home.

[A bold finish to that statement, which Tate doesn't really mean. He likes Duplicity more than the house but - just for this instant he feels like at least those halls were familiar. Some other souls were familiar. He was hated, loathed and trapped but it was all in a way he knew how to cope with. He doesn't know how to be alive again. How to make friends. How to keep friends.]

I'm just so fucking tired.