[Tate barely murmurs his response, and it's heavily inattentive. He's pressing his face into the bed like a dog, brushing his face against the bedding with his eyes low lidded. He's not tired and yet he's exhausted; the stimulant siphoned out of his system bit by bit, leaving him to lay over the rocks of fatigue. He won't fall asleep for a while yet, but he'll lay there quietly drifting. Just the soft rise and fall of his chest to indicate he's still breathing when the rest of him lays in place like a statue.
He's drowsy when he murmurs one last thing, pale lashes fluttering as his dark brown eyes peek out the corner of his eyelids. They look at Derek but they also look at something else. The cobwebs of blood he sees, like a calming spiral of ink in a glass of water. The room doesn't frighten him. He's used to the blood. The desire to be drenched in it, to write in it, to die in it. But...]
Tell th - just keep it down. I don't want to hear it.
[He's not talking about Derek when he lifts his hand, grazing nails down his cheek to leave a white line before he rolls over to lay face down and curled into himself. He breathes a little bit heavier, but relaxes again, and will stay like this until he falls into a treacherously restless sleep. He wakes up a few times with a jolt or a shudder, but bows back out into unsettled dreaming in a cold sweat. Plagued by red floods any time he opens his eyes, he keeps screwing them shut and refusing to face reality for just a little bit longer over and over again.
It's mid morning by the time he groans, miserable in bed and feeling ill.]
no subject
[Tate barely murmurs his response, and it's heavily inattentive. He's pressing his face into the bed like a dog, brushing his face against the bedding with his eyes low lidded. He's not tired and yet he's exhausted; the stimulant siphoned out of his system bit by bit, leaving him to lay over the rocks of fatigue. He won't fall asleep for a while yet, but he'll lay there quietly drifting. Just the soft rise and fall of his chest to indicate he's still breathing when the rest of him lays in place like a statue.
He's drowsy when he murmurs one last thing, pale lashes fluttering as his dark brown eyes peek out the corner of his eyelids. They look at Derek but they also look at something else. The cobwebs of blood he sees, like a calming spiral of ink in a glass of water. The room doesn't frighten him. He's used to the blood. The desire to be drenched in it, to write in it, to die in it. But...]
Tell th - just keep it down. I don't want to hear it.
[He's not talking about Derek when he lifts his hand, grazing nails down his cheek to leave a white line before he rolls over to lay face down and curled into himself. He breathes a little bit heavier, but relaxes again, and will stay like this until he falls into a treacherously restless sleep. He wakes up a few times with a jolt or a shudder, but bows back out into unsettled dreaming in a cold sweat. Plagued by red floods any time he opens his eyes, he keeps screwing them shut and refusing to face reality for just a little bit longer over and over again.
It's mid morning by the time he groans, miserable in bed and feeling ill.]