[Tate matches that look, canting his head to the side before making a gesture at the wood. Then taps silently on his tiny human bicep before rolling his eyes and picking the saw up again. He moves the wood over, adjusting it so another lines ready to be cut at the edge; aggravatedly starts sawing again in slow but steady strokes.]

Yeah, just weed. Right stuff makes me sleepy.

[Which is a feat for Tate, whose issues with sleeping aren't heavily documented to Derek but maybe one day Tate'll elaborate on it. Saw saw saw. He sighs, slowing down. His arm hurts? Fuck you, Derek, why aren't you sawing this shit.]

And I don't know. I'm excited. I just... dunno, waiting for it all to feel real.