[ Tate joins him, despite the long stretch of impatient silence lingering in the air after he shuts off the faucet. Derek knows he should move, get out of here before Tate thinks he's being a fucking creep, but - he sits, and he stays, concern mountain in his stomach the longer it takes for him to hear Tate's soft, wet footsteps padding over porcelain.

There's no smell of blood. No taste of iron in the air, no scratches on Tate's wrist. He knows, now, that Tate can alter his appearance, to some degree - that he's capable of branding himself with a triskele, fixing his skin to hide imperfections or add things that were never there - but Derek looks anyway, cautious, so as not to be seen. He doesn't... feel comforted, knowing that Tate didn't hurt himself. Doesn't feel proud, like he thought he might. Just... sad, still. Sad for him.

Tate starts fidgeting with his henley and Derek-- Derek really should leave. He stays, and he watches Tate, like he's waiting for something to change. A sign that Tate's okay, as if he'll suddenly be alright just because he burned his skin a little red. The bedroom is quiet and still and unevolving, and Derek needs to move before he stagnates with it. ]

I'll... get you something to eat.

[ He doesn't expect Tate to eat, but - he at least wants to make an effort. Make an excuse to leave. He stands. Doesn't leave. Like he's still fucking expecting Tate to kick open the bedroom window and run down the beach and into the ocean, never to be seen again. Derek doesn't even take one step towards the door before he starts buying time with questions, hovering by the edge of the bed, eyes on Tate's profile. ]

Or... drink. Hot chocolate, maybe. I think we still have some pizza, but - I can do something homemade.