[ Derek resists, when it's time to let go. Tate puts his hand on his chest and leverages himself away, and Derek's arms tense like he's not ready to stop holding him, but - he does, all the same. He's cold - he feels like he's been in the rain, too, for how wet his shirt is now. That's fine. He's not important right now.

The last thing Derek wants to do is force Tate to... get through anything, or - let go, move on. Petulant whining has its place, and Derek's not going to jump down his throat for being sad. All he can do is nod, slowly, soft and understanding, as he folds his arms over his chest and presses the heel of his palm against his bicep, fidgeting while he tries to warm up. Tate looks lost. Derek thinks of the party, feels his stomach twist and hurt. ]

Look - why don't you go take a shower? You'll feel better when you're warm. I'll get you some spare clothes, maybe make you something to eat. We can just... hang out for a while.

[ a pause - ]

Talk about Violet, maybe. Or about - you. Anything.