[ Tate's gotten around so much since coming here. Derek gets it, on one level, and it's not like he gives a shit, but it's such - a change, from the Tate that Derek knew during orientation. Scared and angry and incapable of getting through what he had to. He wonders if the city made him more open because it's... who Tate always wanted to be, or if this place corrupted him more than it should have. Preyed on his insecurity about his orientation until it became - this. ]

No.

[ Or maybe that's a shitty and judgmental thing to think about a seventeen year old dead kid who clearly just wants to be loved and to feel alive. Maybe he's being an asshole. Again. The no just hangs there in the air, seemingly without any real context. Derek lifts his leg a little, his cock flexing against his thigh, lightly appreciative of the friction. He takes a breath, staring back up at nothing. ]

I mean - it's not... anything like that. [ Drugs. Aphrodisiacs. Whatever. ] And I don't need you to... to help me, with my quota, or-- or anything like that. That's not what we are.

[ Derek helps. Derek doesn't get help. Not from Tate. Not if he can help it. Least of all over something like this. ]