[Tate's grateful for the silence, even if it feels a bit like a heavy blanket over them as they walk together and board the bus. He sniffs a few more times, more subtle as time goes on. His eyes are dry by the time the bus pulls up to their stop, redness on his face abating and his lungs feeling cleared out after the messy bout of crying. He should've held on tighter, longer, drank up the feeling of being cared for. He'll regret cutting it off so soon, out of fright of looking too needy.

But he's more cheerful when they enter into the store, trailing behind Derek not because of the line down his throat but because he keeps getting distracted by the towering shelves and the scent of wood and paint. He drags his fingers over some of the lumber, and snaps back to attention and walks back up to Derek when he's talking about what he'll get to do in his new little den.]

How much shit will I get in if I have a real stash?

[He asks this full well knowing it's - a touchy subject. Which is why his eyes drop, because he knows maybe it's over the line. But he wants to know that. Wants to be open about this and also about...]

Like, just weed - is that still off the table? No hard stuff, I mean.