[Tate's not expecting it, which is why he shoots Derek a sudden look when beckoned closer. He's still got the plate in his hand, reheated pizza sticking to it, and his eyes seem uncertain as they flick from his open arm to his face. He's cautious, because as much as he automatically feels the lurch to want to sink into the space and feel comforted, he still feels like there's some invisible hurdle there.
Derek's trying to comfort him and he should accept it - he wants to accept it - but maybe it's ego that puts on a delay. There's no more pretending to be straight or perceiving this as something too gay to indulge in, not after the numerous occasions that Tate's done far gayer things with people.
So he. Sits. He stares. And then he starts to slope backward, not quite curling in against Derek but occupying the space on an angle, where his back is in the junction of Derek's arm and shoulder and he can feel him almost draped around him. If he moved his arm it would be, curled around Tate like a seatbelt. His legs are bent, feet up on the couch as slowly - sloooowly he starts to lean his weight back.]
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Derek's trying to comfort him and he should accept it - he wants to accept it - but maybe it's ego that puts on a delay. There's no more pretending to be straight or perceiving this as something too gay to indulge in, not after the numerous occasions that Tate's done far gayer things with people.
So he. Sits. He stares. And then he starts to slope backward, not quite curling in against Derek but occupying the space on an angle, where his back is in the junction of Derek's arm and shoulder and he can feel him almost draped around him. If he moved his arm it would be, curled around Tate like a seatbelt. His legs are bent, feet up on the couch as slowly - sloooowly he starts to lean his weight back.]
I miss her.