[ Tate's getting worse. Derek watches, something stirring in his chest. There's something so small and fragile and sad about how he rocks on his feet, like he's too afraid to just-- breach the final inch between them and ask for the hug he clearly fucking wants, and Derek's heart can't really take it. He thinks of Isaac - the affection he should have fucking shown him, back when he had the chance - and his gut makes the decision for him. ]

Hey, c'mere.

[ Derek steps forward and carefully, carefully pulls Tate in, bringing him in to bury his face against his chest, his neck, his shoulder, wherever he feels most comfortable. As far as hugs go, this one might not be the best; it's wet and clammy and Tate must be fucking uncomfortable in his ice-cold clothes, but it's loving and it's firm and it's real. One of Derek's arms is pulled tight around Tate's back, and the other is curled around his neck, and his hand is slipping beneath the towel to cup the back of his head. He strokes his fingers through Tate's hair, smooths a line up and down the skin behind his ear with his thumb, and he anchors him in, trying to keep him safe and cocooned from the outside world.

Tate doesn't deserve any of this. Now what do I do, he asks, and Derek feels a little more lost for him. ]

You just... get by. Day by day. You can come over any time you want, and we can-- read, or talk, or maybe watch a movie with Stiles. We can work on the treehouse. We can explore the beach - look for some sick caves, like you were talking about. We can do anything you want that might make you feel okay.

[ Derek adjusts his arm, dropping it a little, holding Tate by his waist. He sighs, bends his neck forward, and rests his nose against the towel still covering Tate's hair. He can smell the rain. He can smell Tate's heartbreak, if he focuses on his chemosignals. He tries not to, because it feels-- invasive, but it's-- it's hard to miss. ]

We can wait for her to come back, if you want. Together. You and me. I'm not going anywhere.