[ of course he's coming. it takes derek a few seconds to figure out if tate's enthusiastic to see him or regretting the invite, but he thinks through the haze of drug-addled disorientation, tate wants it. so. ]
[Remember that muffled audio call this all started with? Well, it's returning. For a few seconds, where Tate's voice is indistinct but he's talking with someone. Asking them a question - a female laugh echoes before the swiping of hands over the screen ends the call before Derek needs to. Again, Tate doesn't seem to notice the fuck up. A small pin of location appears after that.]
i dont understnad these things that girl that girl did it so fast you know where to go now right?
[ about forty floors to go, by the time tate calls him. about twenty to go by the time it's done. the girl tate's with forwards the address, and derek only vaguely knows how to get there, but he thinks he can feel it out. he has his werewolf senses back - worst case scenario, he goes to tate's place, breathes something in and tracks his scent. wouldn't be hard. ]
Yeah.
[ but it probably won't come to that. the elevator stops, its steel doors opening, some old man and his sub stepping in. derek doesn't want to deal with company, so he gets out and takes the stairs, texting tate as he half-jogs to the entrance of his highrise building. ]
Wait for me outside. I don't want to go in and talk to anyone.
You'll regret letting me call you my friend when you're sober. I'll see you soon.
[ this is bad. derek heads down two steps at a time, shoving his phone in his jacket pocket, the leather cool and hard as it brushes against his knuckles. he needs to go over everything he knows about tate in his head - he's caustic and slipping and self-destructive, he's quick to violence, he's quick to hurt. he's lonely and angry and unchained, he's jealous and so often afraid. he's riddled with hang-ups, afraid of his sexuality. he hurts himself when he needs release.
there's too much weakness in him, there to be played with and moulded by someone who means him harm. derek's already hurt him a couple of times, between orientation and the fort, and it sucks, because he's only ever wanted to be there for him. he's only ever wanted to make things better. the railing down the stairs is smooth and cold to the touch, and derek grips it a little faster as he picks up speed. he needs to try harder to cage tate. needs to find a way to clip his wings before somebody breaks them.
his feet hit the ground floor and derek starts moving. tate's in the down, so it'll take a while to get there and another fucking elevator to descend, but of course he's in the down, the up's parties probably aren't half as capable of getting a 17 year old this fucked up. it takes a while, but - sooner or later, derek's following the sound of shitty music getting steadily louder and tracking it to tate, and tate's waiting on the sidewalk in the muggy heat like he asked. derek approaches, all in leather and black, hands in his pockets and curled into fists. he can see how wasted tate is already. ]
[It takes a little while for Tate to make good on his promise and go outside. There's just a sea of people moving under the haze and lights of the club environment, made of a makeshift building. Dominants pull subs along by the sleeve and collar, and others just weave around together in self-indulged bliss. The place reeks of weed and smoke the most, but for people like Tate who are sweating out uppers and booze, noses like Derek's are bound to pick up on a lot.
He's outside in a black-shirt and jeans, having lost his overshirt somewhere in the early half of the evening. The earth radiates a certain warmth that keeps the sweat clinging to his brow, his blond hair tussled but damp. His eyes are glazed but his expression alternating between blank and soft smiles, head tilting to look up at the nearest humming light source like it's God Himself.
He's beyond wasted. If somehow possible, he looks like he's OD'd three times over - and maybe he has, with regenerative abilities and all the fury and pain he threw into getting blitzed. All his worries are forgotten, but the dangerous thing about Tate is that the scales are never truly balanced. The bliss, the joy, it can cascade away and leave that raw fury to replace it in an instant.
But for now, he smiles, distant behind the eyes but seemingly happy when he hears his name. He smells of other people, other bodies, of muted lust and thrown back liquor. He can barely stand straight, hovering with a slight lean side to side that he doesn't seem to notice. He even has a drink in his hand, brown beer bottle clasped by the neck and used to gesture at Derek when he recognizes him.]
[ this place is too much for derek. everything is sour and acrid and intoxicating, like fumes that boiled and burnt through tar. the weed is one thing - stagnant and stale and heavy and thick - but it's everything else that's really getting to him. the cloying sweetness of heavier drugs, the chemicals he can taste in the air in a way that humans can't. the party makes him feel nauseous in that way where his stomach acid feels hot and sickly, and the sooner he pulls tate away and gets him out of here, the better.
tate's fucked up. derek already knew, but seeing him up close is - something else. "you came," he says, happy just because he has an excuse to be happy. derek's ribs ache. he's fucking seventeen years old. he shouldn't look like this. ]
Yeah.
[ how is tate even walking? standing, for that matter? he's gaunt and blotchy and covered in sweat, like he's been run through with a fever and left out in the rain. it's a wonder he can even string two coherent words together, let alone make a whole sentence. it takes all the willpower derek has not to look at him with pity, or with fear. he rememebrs the fort. how badly he made things by doing that.
they need to leave. derek looks at tate, then looks over his shoulder. there's sex in the air, which is to be expected. cum and sweat and spit all mixed together. he's surrounded by too many people to know if tate's stained with it. he hopes not. ]
C'mon.
[ either way - they need to go, back to the elevator, back to the up. derek holds his hand out to tate, willing him to take it. ]
[Tate reaches for his hand on reflex, fingertips grazing Derek's palm before he tentatively draws them back in a gentle swipe as his hand retracts. What's coursing through his veins still has made him docile to a degree, and more likely to lean toward agreement. He can already feel his body shifting to move forward, but one tiny thread of reluctance grounds him. He looks back to the warehouse, the wafting smell of someone's cigarette in the air.
He looks a bit lost when he glances back to Derek, pale brows knitting together. Despite himself, he steps closer, heel of his sneaker dragging on asphalt. It's then that he remembers he's holding a beer, taking a short swig as he stumbles forward.]
I thought you - I thought you came to party.
[He's already forgotten the request of getting to ferry Tate away, having latched on to the idea of Derek wanting to see him. Wanting no competition for Tate's time. The cotton in his head cushions his feelings, makes that a good thing again, something easier to want without feeling jealous and prickly.
[ tate looks at him like he doesn't even realize he's there. glassy-eyed and ghostly. derek watches him, doing his fucking damnedest to make sure he looks as convincingly neutral as he can, holding his hand out mechanically even after tate grazes their hands together and lets go, even after tate stumbles and loses his place. tate doesn't seem like he's in his head enough to see derek's non-reactions as suspicious. maybe he is. derek's comfortable risking it. ]
I'm here for you. Not the party. I want to be alone with you.
[ derek needs help to get tate out. his instinct is to call erica, but then his stomach twists when he realizes she's not here to be forward and social and charming in all the ways that derek isn't. his second instinct is to call stiles, but he - can't. not after the fort. he can't derek and stiles this, just like stiles couldn't stiles and derek this if he were here instead. tate wouldn't deal well with that.
so... fuck. he shifts his weight to his other foot, stretching out his arm a little more insistently, but just a little. this is manipulative, and he knows it is, but he doesn't know how else to talk to tate without making him angry. least of all when he's like this. derek bows his head, holding eye contact. tate's eyes are dilated and bloodshot, but derek knew they would be. ]
You don't want to hang out with me? I thought you said we were friends.
[Tate's lips part and it might not be a mistake to sense a bit of color in his face after that, splotches of pink on an otherwise ashen complexion. Derek's here for him. Wants to be alone - and that reminds him of the tangled web of memories from orientation, the newly stoked fire in his chest about moments like this. About wanting moments like this. He drops his gaze for a few seconds, head tilted away, but his eyes flick back to Derek's hand like he's magnetized to it.
He steps closer still, hand raised again but it swats at Derek's forearm to push it away. Holding hands seems like too much, but snagging a grip of Derek's sleeve and holding on to the leather seems fine. Though he pulls on it a bit when his weight shifts in the opposite direction, the concrete under his sneakers rocking like choppy waters.]
I said - I said... I can't remember what I said.
[His expression softens again, unscrewing from confusion to just - go with the flow. He quirks his brows and then glances up to Derek's face, staring at him openly. He's looked at him before, glowered at every little detail of his face but he's never stared at him quite like this before. Fascinated, lingering a bit too long on Derek's jaw as he struggles to process the view.]
You want to be alone with me?
[His voice is meek, almost. He blinks a few times in quick succession.]
[ he needs tate off the streets, he needs him laying down. he needs to lock him away on the eighty-first floor, get him to chug back some coffee or water and sleep this off. he needs to offer tate a warm meal and a hot shower. he needs do something.
tate swats at his arm and takes hold, and that's good enough for derek. he looks over tate's shoulder, catches the warehouse and the awful lighting, and he starts to turn and walk away. it takes all his willpower not to just... carry tate, who barely seems able to put one foot in front of the other.
he doesn't mind being stared at. doesn't mind the owlish way tate curls in on himself, blinking curiously. he just - walks, arm out for tate, always a second away from reaching out with it and stopping him if he falls or turns to go back to the warehouse. the elevator's a bit of a trek, but. they can get there like this. ]
[Tate repeats the word under his breath, swept into the waves that take them away from the warehouse and the drugs that make the night beautiful to Tate. The sky twinkles and everything is vivid, sharp and direct. Even the air seems to have a taste to it, every noise and feeling fluid even when he's not. He jostles too hard to start moving, dropping the beer bottle to the ground in a crash of glass and he barely reacts. He looks down, but they're already leaving it behind. He murmurs 'shit' under his breath.
He stays close, like instructed, but it only lasts so long. Then he starts to drift away from concentrating on his steps, loosening his grip of Derek's sleeve to stop and rub at his eyes. They're nearly to the elevator and he's feeling regretful. He wants to go back.]
I left my shirt. Back there.
[He rubs his forearm, feeling goosebumps along his pale forearms. Then he scratches the inner sides, harder than he means to - pink welts rise from his nails. He looks to Derek again and seems oddly lost, black-brown eyes widely expressive in how he's looking for instruction again. He seems to silently find it in the features of Derek's face.]
Sorry. We're - We're going to your place, right. I just feel like I'm forgetting something.
[ derek just needs to keep putting one foot in front of the other, eyes open and unblinking and staring dead ahead. he watches for other partygoers, he watches for other subs, and he watches for other doms. anyone that could interrupt them and distract tate and take him back home. ]
Don't worry. We can go back to the party later.
[ to get tate's shirt, he means. that's a lie, and the guilt that hits him is small and sharp, like a spider bite. tate stops and lets go of his sleeve and derek wants to shake him, because they're so close to the elevator, and if he just gets tate into the up things should start getting better. they'd be in the home stretch.
but tate scratches his arms, and derek winces, nausea rising to his throat again. he needs to help tate. he needs to help tate, he needs to lie, he needs to give him the bite so getting high won't work anymore, he needs - a pack. they both do. ]
You forgot your shirt. Remember? You just told me.
[ he reaches out, sets his hand on tate's shoulder, and he thinks of erica, and isaac, and boyd. he thinks of how he looked them in the eye and spoke to them like they were the only people in the world that mattered, and he thinks of how the bite saved each of them. he'd be saving tate. he just needs to keep telling himself that to smother the guilt.
derek bends down a little, gets to tate's level. he makes eye contact, and he holds it, staring at tate with intensity and lowering his voice to a quiet, smooth rumble. ]
You're just cold. That's all. Do you want to wear my jacket?
[They can go back to the party, he says. Tate feels a sweep of relief at that, like a hand has coaxed its way through his hair, alleviating the tension that built at the back of his neck. It dissipates the nagging thought that something's left behind. He doesn't even own much here, making the shirt all that more important, so he exhales sharply with a soft nod. And then he closes his mouth, mouth a bit dry as he looks into Derek's eyes because there's nowhere else to look.
He shies away from the intensity first, staring down at Derek's lips or at his cheek, but like a scolded dog, he eventually caves and looks into the hazel of his eyes directly. And feels like he's suddenly exposed, swallowing hard and feeling his stomach tense. If he wasn't already flushed with color he might've blushed at that moment, the swooping feeling in his gut not unfamiliar.]
No. Yeah? Maybe, okay.
[That wasn't just an answer, it was every answer - but he's pulling away from Derek to keep moving. Just slow drags of his heels, sneakers shuffling on the pavement as he glances at Derek before watching where he's walking instead. His arms sting and he just rubs his fingertips over the welts absently, looking up at every street light as they pass it.]
I lost my beer too. Do you have beer at your place? I'm thirsty.
[ okay. okay, this is fine. tate starts moving, disoriented but... present, for the most part. derek lags behind for a second or two, just to watch him go, and there's that same sickly shot of guilt coiling down the back of his spine that he can't quite abate. he knows he's doing the right thing, he knows he's trying to help - but that doesn't make his lies any less of a lie. ]
Stop worrying so much.
[ he paces after tate, manages his speed so they're shoulder to shoulder. he keeps his hands in his pockets until they get to the elevator, and he heads inside, the heavy metal doors shutting solemnly behind them. derek shrugs off his jacket once they're inside and alone, a draft coming through from somewhere above them and making his skin prickle from the coolness of the air, and he makes a motion like he's going to hand the jacket to tate so he can put it on himself, but. then he thinks better of it. there's no way tate's that coordinated right now.
so he heads behind him, slips the jacket over tate's shoulders, the inner lining warming and comforting in a way you might not expect. he casts a cursory glance at tate's arm, notices the welts and the red and the old scars. he doesn't say anything, only... steps away, heads back to the elevator's control panel. they're moving so slowly. ]
[Tate looks behind him at Derek when he's draping the coat over his shoulders, awkwardly accepting it before settling into it when he's moved away. He's not quite up to the task of maneuvering his arms into it yet but he lifts his hands to the lapels, holding it on. He's quiet for a long moment and it might be hard to tell why - he's zoning in and out of focus but after a period of thought (or lack there of,) Tate moves closer to Derek's side. Like a feral cat brushing up against his legs, Tate sticks close to his shadow.]
Thanks. It's... warmer.
[Something about feeling Derek's body heat spikes his heart beat, a jumble of memories in his head from the orientation room. From experiences between then and now with other people, and the curbed inhibitions he's been having today his excuse - he looks up at Derek's face while holding his breath for a beat.]
You know.
[He doesn't know if this is right, if he's going to be shut down again - to feel that prickling sensation of being played the fool, but. He's not really thinking with much more than the throb of arousal that lives in his pants. Why else would Derek take him home if not to...
Yeah - He can think of other reasons. But they bother him. They don't fit the slots the way he wants them to, so he pushes them away. He reaches out to drag his fingertips along the waistband of Derek's jeans, fingers navigating the strip of denim from belt hoop to the button. Slow, steady, deliberately pressing in against his abdomen when he reaches the closure.]
[ the elevator feels too small for the both of them. derek just - waits, staring at the doors, counting the seconds in his head as they ascend to the up. he hears tate coming, but he doesn't think anything of it. doesn't react to the thank you, doesn't react to the weight against his side. he only thinks about... how to fix this. how to help.
and then tate's touching him and the nausea that's been trapped in derek's chest only starts to feel worse. he winces a little, turning to look at tate, the light, intrusive touch of slender fingertips catching him off-guard. this doesn't... turn him on, this doesn't do anything. this just makes him feel sad. terrified, again, about what could have happened to tate if he'd left him at that party alone. ]
We are.
[ but if he rejects tate now - really, solidly rejects him - then tate will bail as soon as those doors open. the kid's zoned out of his fucking gourd, and if he does manage to stumble away from derek long enough to get lost among the buildings and the crowds, he could be in real, genuine danger. if he's still too weak to walk, let alone run, then he'll just... panic, when derek so easily manhandles him back to his apartment, and that might be even worse. tate already said derek fits the role of a dom, and that's stuck with him, made him feel horrible. he doesn't want to make tate feel weak. derek doesn't want to act or feel like a scumbag, he just wants to help.
so he feels trapped. he feels like his priority has to be getting tate home. he has no intention of sleeping with him - but once they're locked in his apartment, he can distract tate, he can sober him up. he can do something. he just... he just needs to get tate home. no matter how he does it. ]
But - we won't be for long. So...
[ derek swallows, looks to the doors, the little panel telling them how long left they have to the surface of the city. still a few minutes to go. ]
Just... let's get back to my place, and then - we can do anything you want. Okay?
[Tate's fingertip had only just wiggled beneath the denim, grazing the warmth of Derek's skin on the other side - when he's speaking and Tate freezes to look up at him. There's a keen, rapt attention that Tate gives him now that he hasn't necessarily before. With no shield of a cold composure, no disinterest to mask the desperation in his eyes, Tate looks childish in just how expectant he is. How attentive he is to the words that sit in the air.
Derek's right in that the wrong word just now could've set Tate off like a match to dry bush, but Derek has a way to him that's - just scraping by that entirely. He curbs the situation in a net that catches Tate, pulling him along with a thoughtful screwing of his nose before he seems satisfied.]
Okay.
[And the wick is extinguished just like that, with Tate pulling back his hand and looking at his palm before closing his eyes. He stays where he is, tucked close to the front of Derek, but he just - rides the feeling of ascension in the elevator with his eyes shut. Pretends for a few seconds that he's flying before groggily blinking himself back into the elevator itself.]
Would've pegged you more of an exhibitionist though.
[A snort and a sudden smile, Tate's a little too amused but it's at least an expression that lights up his face in comparison to the bleak blankness he was just wearing only moments ago.]
[ since becoming an alpha, derek hasn't let himself feel like prey. he's a predator, top of the foodchain. the world is supposed to bend to him, even when it's propped up by guns and wolfsbane and fire. the fort made it hard to stick to that confidence, and veracity made it even harder, but he's ultimately tried to live his life like an unstoppable force - someone who has all the power a hale is supposed to have. he wants to be unbreakable. he's tried to be unbreakable.
now, though? in this long stretch of silence where tate's just staring at him, innocent and soft, fingertips so close to the base of derek's cock, derek feels snared. he's a rabbit in a trap, waiting to see if the bear in front of him is going to do more, do less, leave, stay. he watches with his heart stuck in his throat, staring at tate with that same carefully manufactured neutrality. he just... waits.
and then tate backs off, makes a joke about him being an exhibitionist. he's right, but derek's sure as shit not going to say that. he just shrugs, with one shoulder, adjusting the hem of his henley, smoothing the edge over his belt with his thumb. tate's happy. good enough.
he doesn't say anything until the elevator reaches the up, the doors softly sliding open, smooth and polished and taken care of. derek's tongue darts between his lips as he breathes in the air, so much less muggy and stagnant than the hellhole of the down. he needs to get tate out of there for good, somehow. needs to find him a dom. ].
Come on. [ he starts walking, hands in his pockets. ] It's not far.
Edited (im sO tIRED I DONT K NOW HOW WORDS WORk) 2019-03-10 04:35 (UTC)
[Tate might've felt like there was an awkwardness to the silence before the doors opened, but he's not as tuned in to the cues as he would be on a sober night. He doesn't quite startle but he looks sharply to the doors when they ding, looking to Derek before following him out. It's now that he starts to work his arms through the sleeves to wear the jacket properly, though it takes most of his attention for the following few minutes.
And when he manages that? Well, shit. The Up has a glamour to it that he gets stunned by every time. This beautiful green oasis that's better than the dirt heap he lives in, but never somewhere he's sought to stay. He doesn't belong here, doesn't want to be here. Even if the few people he knows and likes all tend to live here now. He's only slightly jealous.]
You... There's a book store here. Stiles told me about it.
[Stiles: The Forbidden Topic doesn't get focused on, instead Tate's more interested in the scenery and catching up to Derek in stride. His own are still somewhat unbalanced, slow and uncoordinated. But he's still got an electricity in him from when he laughed, a spark of light that infuses his attitude. Thankfully, it doesn't change when talking about Stiles.]
I want to go there but I can't buy anything. Even if I had the money, they don't... subs don't get shit.
[ tate busies himself with derek's jacket, and derek considers stopping to help him fit his arms through each sleeve, but - he won't, not unless tate starts looking frustrated or actively asks for the help. it's fucked up to just let him struggle with something so simple when he's this high, but it keeps him preoccupied, which should stop him from fixating on derek semi-sorta turning him down. the last thing derek needs is for tate to... fall off any edges into anger or depression or-- or something else. they're so close to the apartment, they're in the home stretch.
stiles gets namedropped and derek feels cold, but tate moves past it without acting jealous or talking about the fort. derek picks up the pace a little, scratching his thumbnail against the inner lining of his pocket. he's focused on getting home without being seen, so he's only half-listening to tate, but - ]
You don't have to find the money. I'll take you there and buy you anything you want.
[ - he means that all the same. derek looks over his shoulder, sees tate ambling behind him, a little further away than derek thought he'd be. he winces and stands still, waiting for tate to catch up. he can't rush this. ]
[Tate's trying not to think of the sinkhole in his chest that erupts any time he remembers the shed at Fort Harmony. But like a piece of gum stuck to his shoe, it stretches out and he can either pretend it's not there or forcibly detach it. It's the latter he tries to do with a calm head, perhaps only as steadily balanced as it is on account of the euphoric baseline he's still living in.
He blinks a few times, considering Derek's offer before continuing. He's got both arms through the sleeves now and the jacket looks a little too large for him, like the borrowed thing it is. But it has a certain smell to it, a familiar feeling that makes it feel right. He tugs it closer to his neck, arm folding across his chest to keep it closed.]
I don't want to be... exploiting you. I'm...
[A tired, weary sigh. He rubs at his eye until he sees stars through it.]
If you're gonna act like a sugardaddy you might as well get something for it.
[ there's an honesty in tate that derek hasn't seen too often. a softness to him. something that drew derek to him in the first place, outside of the harsh, reactive explosions, the cutting insults and the constantly expanding black hole of pity and concern that makes up half of their relationship. this is the side of tate that's just... a scared, lonely kid. no razors, no drugs, just an interest in books and a longing for acknowledgment. if derek gives tate the bite, and all the confidence and security that comes with having a pack - maybe he'll be like this more often. someone... sweet. ]
Don't be stupid. We're friends.
[ he thinks. he's not sure. it's hard to say they're friends, after everything, but the word still fits right, especially after he's practiced using it so often with stiles. derek shakes his head a little, and he walks closer to tate, bridging distance. derek reaches out, and he lightly taps his knuckles against tate's shoulder, pumping his eyebrows up. his voice is quiet, almost monotone. still carefully neutral. ]
If I can make you happy, then - that's enough for me.
[To please Derek. Although despite the intention Derek happens to have in mind, Tate's still thinking in more selective terms. He's still fooled by the false atmosphere of the elevator, the shrouded mess in his head that thinks there's still something here that's innately sexual. He's attracted to Derek and still grappling with that fact, but after a few exchanges he's had here with other people... tentatively toeing the line of what he's comfortable with and what he wants... this could be something.
And, of course, in the same way Derek actually is thinking this, Tate wants to please him too. He's got that deep seated fear of rejection, the desire of measuring up and yet simultaneously not having to be held to any ideals or any molding. He blinks when he's touched, swatting again at Derek with the splayed fingers of his hand. It's light, playful, edges on a shove.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
[Facts.]
okay. hold on
you're coming though right
you'll come?
no subject
Yes.
I would like to see you.
no subject
[Remember that muffled audio call this all started with? Well, it's returning. For a few seconds, where Tate's voice is indistinct but he's talking with someone. Asking them a question - a female laugh echoes before the swiping of hands over the screen ends the call before Derek needs to. Again, Tate doesn't seem to notice the fuck up. A small pin of location appears after that.]
i dont understnad these things
that girl
that girl did it so fast
you know where to go now right?
no subject
Yeah.
[ but it probably won't come to that. the elevator stops, its steel doors opening, some old man and his sub stepping in. derek doesn't want to deal with company, so he gets out and takes the stairs, texting tate as he half-jogs to the entrance of his highrise building. ]
Wait for me outside.
I don't want to go in and talk to anyone.
no subject
[Tate's laughing to himself, unheard.]
correction. 1 friend
2 i guess
if I let u count me
I will be OUTSIDe.
no subject
I'll see you soon.
[ this is bad. derek heads down two steps at a time, shoving his phone in his jacket pocket, the leather cool and hard as it brushes against his knuckles. he needs to go over everything he knows about tate in his head - he's caustic and slipping and self-destructive, he's quick to violence, he's quick to hurt. he's lonely and angry and unchained, he's jealous and so often afraid. he's riddled with hang-ups, afraid of his sexuality. he hurts himself when he needs release.
there's too much weakness in him, there to be played with and moulded by someone who means him harm. derek's already hurt him a couple of times, between orientation and the fort, and it sucks, because he's only ever wanted to be there for him. he's only ever wanted to make things better. the railing down the stairs is smooth and cold to the touch, and derek grips it a little faster as he picks up speed. he needs to try harder to cage tate. needs to find a way to clip his wings before somebody breaks them.
his feet hit the ground floor and derek starts moving. tate's in the down, so it'll take a while to get there and another fucking elevator to descend, but of course he's in the down, the up's parties probably aren't half as capable of getting a 17 year old this fucked up. it takes a while, but - sooner or later, derek's following the sound of shitty music getting steadily louder and tracking it to tate, and tate's waiting on the sidewalk in the muggy heat like he asked. derek approaches, all in leather and black, hands in his pockets and curled into fists. he can see how wasted tate is already. ]
Tate.
[ he says, after approaching. that's it. no hi. ]
no subject
He's outside in a black-shirt and jeans, having lost his overshirt somewhere in the early half of the evening. The earth radiates a certain warmth that keeps the sweat clinging to his brow, his blond hair tussled but damp. His eyes are glazed but his expression alternating between blank and soft smiles, head tilting to look up at the nearest humming light source like it's God Himself.
He's beyond wasted. If somehow possible, he looks like he's OD'd three times over - and maybe he has, with regenerative abilities and all the fury and pain he threw into getting blitzed. All his worries are forgotten, but the dangerous thing about Tate is that the scales are never truly balanced. The bliss, the joy, it can cascade away and leave that raw fury to replace it in an instant.
But for now, he smiles, distant behind the eyes but seemingly happy when he hears his name. He smells of other people, other bodies, of muted lust and thrown back liquor. He can barely stand straight, hovering with a slight lean side to side that he doesn't seem to notice. He even has a drink in his hand, brown beer bottle clasped by the neck and used to gesture at Derek when he recognizes him.]
Hey, hey. Hey? You came. You really fucking came.
no subject
tate's fucked up. derek already knew, but seeing him up close is - something else. "you came," he says, happy just because he has an excuse to be happy. derek's ribs ache. he's fucking seventeen years old. he shouldn't look like this. ]
Yeah.
[ how is tate even walking? standing, for that matter? he's gaunt and blotchy and covered in sweat, like he's been run through with a fever and left out in the rain. it's a wonder he can even string two coherent words together, let alone make a whole sentence. it takes all the willpower derek has not to look at him with pity, or with fear. he rememebrs the fort. how badly he made things by doing that.
they need to leave. derek looks at tate, then looks over his shoulder. there's sex in the air, which is to be expected. cum and sweat and spit all mixed together. he's surrounded by too many people to know if tate's stained with it. he hopes not. ]
C'mon.
[ either way - they need to go, back to the elevator, back to the up. derek holds his hand out to tate, willing him to take it. ]
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He looks a bit lost when he glances back to Derek, pale brows knitting together. Despite himself, he steps closer, heel of his sneaker dragging on asphalt. It's then that he remembers he's holding a beer, taking a short swig as he stumbles forward.]
I thought you - I thought you came to party.
[He's already forgotten the request of getting to ferry Tate away, having latched on to the idea of Derek wanting to see him. Wanting no competition for Tate's time. The cotton in his head cushions his feelings, makes that a good thing again, something easier to want without feeling jealous and prickly.
Weakly, without any real conviction:]
I don't want to leave.
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I'm here for you. Not the party. I want to be alone with you.
[ derek needs help to get tate out. his instinct is to call erica, but then his stomach twists when he realizes she's not here to be forward and social and charming in all the ways that derek isn't. his second instinct is to call stiles, but he - can't. not after the fort. he can't derek and stiles this, just like stiles couldn't stiles and derek this if he were here instead. tate wouldn't deal well with that.
so... fuck. he shifts his weight to his other foot, stretching out his arm a little more insistently, but just a little. this is manipulative, and he knows it is, but he doesn't know how else to talk to tate without making him angry. least of all when he's like this. derek bows his head, holding eye contact. tate's eyes are dilated and bloodshot, but derek knew they would be. ]
You don't want to hang out with me? I thought you said we were friends.
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He steps closer still, hand raised again but it swats at Derek's forearm to push it away. Holding hands seems like too much, but snagging a grip of Derek's sleeve and holding on to the leather seems fine. Though he pulls on it a bit when his weight shifts in the opposite direction, the concrete under his sneakers rocking like choppy waters.]
I said - I said... I can't remember what I said.
[His expression softens again, unscrewing from confusion to just - go with the flow. He quirks his brows and then glances up to Derek's face, staring at him openly. He's looked at him before, glowered at every little detail of his face but he's never stared at him quite like this before. Fascinated, lingering a bit too long on Derek's jaw as he struggles to process the view.]
You want to be alone with me?
[His voice is meek, almost. He blinks a few times in quick succession.]
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[ he needs tate off the streets, he needs him laying down. he needs to lock him away on the eighty-first floor, get him to chug back some coffee or water and sleep this off. he needs to offer tate a warm meal and a hot shower. he needs do something.
tate swats at his arm and takes hold, and that's good enough for derek. he looks over tate's shoulder, catches the warehouse and the awful lighting, and he starts to turn and walk away. it takes all his willpower not to just... carry tate, who barely seems able to put one foot in front of the other.
he doesn't mind being stared at. doesn't mind the owlish way tate curls in on himself, blinking curiously. he just - walks, arm out for tate, always a second away from reaching out with it and stopping him if he falls or turns to go back to the warehouse. the elevator's a bit of a trek, but. they can get there like this. ]
You're my friend. Stay close. Don't let go.
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[Tate repeats the word under his breath, swept into the waves that take them away from the warehouse and the drugs that make the night beautiful to Tate. The sky twinkles and everything is vivid, sharp and direct. Even the air seems to have a taste to it, every noise and feeling fluid even when he's not. He jostles too hard to start moving, dropping the beer bottle to the ground in a crash of glass and he barely reacts. He looks down, but they're already leaving it behind. He murmurs 'shit' under his breath.
He stays close, like instructed, but it only lasts so long. Then he starts to drift away from concentrating on his steps, loosening his grip of Derek's sleeve to stop and rub at his eyes. They're nearly to the elevator and he's feeling regretful. He wants to go back.]
I left my shirt. Back there.
[He rubs his forearm, feeling goosebumps along his pale forearms. Then he scratches the inner sides, harder than he means to - pink welts rise from his nails. He looks to Derek again and seems oddly lost, black-brown eyes widely expressive in how he's looking for instruction again. He seems to silently find it in the features of Derek's face.]
Sorry. We're - We're going to your place, right. I just feel like I'm forgetting something.
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Don't worry. We can go back to the party later.
[ to get tate's shirt, he means. that's a lie, and the guilt that hits him is small and sharp, like a spider bite. tate stops and lets go of his sleeve and derek wants to shake him, because they're so close to the elevator, and if he just gets tate into the up things should start getting better. they'd be in the home stretch.
but tate scratches his arms, and derek winces, nausea rising to his throat again. he needs to help tate. he needs to help tate, he needs to lie, he needs to give him the bite so getting high won't work anymore, he needs - a pack. they both do. ]
You forgot your shirt. Remember? You just told me.
[ he reaches out, sets his hand on tate's shoulder, and he thinks of erica, and isaac, and boyd. he thinks of how he looked them in the eye and spoke to them like they were the only people in the world that mattered, and he thinks of how the bite saved each of them. he'd be saving tate. he just needs to keep telling himself that to smother the guilt.
derek bends down a little, gets to tate's level. he makes eye contact, and he holds it, staring at tate with intensity and lowering his voice to a quiet, smooth rumble. ]
You're just cold. That's all. Do you want to wear my jacket?
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He shies away from the intensity first, staring down at Derek's lips or at his cheek, but like a scolded dog, he eventually caves and looks into the hazel of his eyes directly. And feels like he's suddenly exposed, swallowing hard and feeling his stomach tense. If he wasn't already flushed with color he might've blushed at that moment, the swooping feeling in his gut not unfamiliar.]
No. Yeah? Maybe, okay.
[That wasn't just an answer, it was every answer - but he's pulling away from Derek to keep moving. Just slow drags of his heels, sneakers shuffling on the pavement as he glances at Derek before watching where he's walking instead. His arms sting and he just rubs his fingertips over the welts absently, looking up at every street light as they pass it.]
I lost my beer too. Do you have beer at your place? I'm thirsty.
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Stop worrying so much.
[ he paces after tate, manages his speed so they're shoulder to shoulder. he keeps his hands in his pockets until they get to the elevator, and he heads inside, the heavy metal doors shutting solemnly behind them. derek shrugs off his jacket once they're inside and alone, a draft coming through from somewhere above them and making his skin prickle from the coolness of the air, and he makes a motion like he's going to hand the jacket to tate so he can put it on himself, but. then he thinks better of it. there's no way tate's that coordinated right now.
so he heads behind him, slips the jacket over tate's shoulders, the inner lining warming and comforting in a way you might not expect. he casts a cursory glance at tate's arm, notices the welts and the red and the old scars. he doesn't say anything, only... steps away, heads back to the elevator's control panel. they're moving so slowly. ]
Better?
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Thanks. It's... warmer.
[Something about feeling Derek's body heat spikes his heart beat, a jumble of memories in his head from the orientation room. From experiences between then and now with other people, and the curbed inhibitions he's been having today his excuse - he looks up at Derek's face while holding his breath for a beat.]
You know.
[He doesn't know if this is right, if he's going to be shut down again - to feel that prickling sensation of being played the fool, but. He's not really thinking with much more than the throb of arousal that lives in his pants. Why else would Derek take him home if not to...
Yeah - He can think of other reasons. But they bother him. They don't fit the slots the way he wants them to, so he pushes them away. He reaches out to drag his fingertips along the waistband of Derek's jeans, fingers navigating the strip of denim from belt hoop to the button. Slow, steady, deliberately pressing in against his abdomen when he reaches the closure.]
We're alone now.
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and then tate's touching him and the nausea that's been trapped in derek's chest only starts to feel worse. he winces a little, turning to look at tate, the light, intrusive touch of slender fingertips catching him off-guard. this doesn't... turn him on, this doesn't do anything. this just makes him feel sad. terrified, again, about what could have happened to tate if he'd left him at that party alone. ]
We are.
[ but if he rejects tate now - really, solidly rejects him - then tate will bail as soon as those doors open. the kid's zoned out of his fucking gourd, and if he does manage to stumble away from derek long enough to get lost among the buildings and the crowds, he could be in real, genuine danger. if he's still too weak to walk, let alone run, then he'll just... panic, when derek so easily manhandles him back to his apartment, and that might be even worse. tate already said derek fits the role of a dom, and that's stuck with him, made him feel horrible. he doesn't want to make tate feel weak. derek doesn't want to act or feel like a scumbag, he just wants to help.
so he feels trapped. he feels like his priority has to be getting tate home. he has no intention of sleeping with him - but once they're locked in his apartment, he can distract tate, he can sober him up. he can do something. he just... he just needs to get tate home. no matter how he does it. ]
But - we won't be for long. So...
[ derek swallows, looks to the doors, the little panel telling them how long left they have to the surface of the city. still a few minutes to go. ]
Just... let's get back to my place, and then - we can do anything you want. Okay?
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Derek's right in that the wrong word just now could've set Tate off like a match to dry bush, but Derek has a way to him that's - just scraping by that entirely. He curbs the situation in a net that catches Tate, pulling him along with a thoughtful screwing of his nose before he seems satisfied.]
Okay.
[And the wick is extinguished just like that, with Tate pulling back his hand and looking at his palm before closing his eyes. He stays where he is, tucked close to the front of Derek, but he just - rides the feeling of ascension in the elevator with his eyes shut. Pretends for a few seconds that he's flying before groggily blinking himself back into the elevator itself.]
Would've pegged you more of an exhibitionist though.
[A snort and a sudden smile, Tate's a little too amused but it's at least an expression that lights up his face in comparison to the bleak blankness he was just wearing only moments ago.]
Weak.
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now, though? in this long stretch of silence where tate's just staring at him, innocent and soft, fingertips so close to the base of derek's cock, derek feels snared. he's a rabbit in a trap, waiting to see if the bear in front of him is going to do more, do less, leave, stay. he watches with his heart stuck in his throat, staring at tate with that same carefully manufactured neutrality. he just... waits.
and then tate backs off, makes a joke about him being an exhibitionist. he's right, but derek's sure as shit not going to say that. he just shrugs, with one shoulder, adjusting the hem of his henley, smoothing the edge over his belt with his thumb. tate's happy. good enough.
he doesn't say anything until the elevator reaches the up, the doors softly sliding open, smooth and polished and taken care of. derek's tongue darts between his lips as he breathes in the air, so much less muggy and stagnant than the hellhole of the down. he needs to get tate out of there for good, somehow. needs to find him a dom. ].
Come on. [ he starts walking, hands in his pockets. ] It's not far.
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And when he manages that? Well, shit. The Up has a glamour to it that he gets stunned by every time. This beautiful green oasis that's better than the dirt heap he lives in, but never somewhere he's sought to stay. He doesn't belong here, doesn't want to be here. Even if the few people he knows and likes all tend to live here now. He's only slightly jealous.]
You... There's a book store here. Stiles told me about it.
[Stiles: The Forbidden Topic doesn't get focused on, instead Tate's more interested in the scenery and catching up to Derek in stride. His own are still somewhat unbalanced, slow and uncoordinated. But he's still got an electricity in him from when he laughed, a spark of light that infuses his attitude. Thankfully, it doesn't change when talking about Stiles.]
I want to go there but I can't buy anything. Even if I had the money, they don't... subs don't get shit.
[Hm.]
If I find the money - could you maybe... ?
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stiles gets namedropped and derek feels cold, but tate moves past it without acting jealous or talking about the fort. derek picks up the pace a little, scratching his thumbnail against the inner lining of his pocket. he's focused on getting home without being seen, so he's only half-listening to tate, but - ]
You don't have to find the money. I'll take you there and buy you anything you want.
[ - he means that all the same. derek looks over his shoulder, sees tate ambling behind him, a little further away than derek thought he'd be. he winces and stands still, waiting for tate to catch up. he can't rush this. ]
Tomorrow, though. You've had a big night.
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[Tate's trying not to think of the sinkhole in his chest that erupts any time he remembers the shed at Fort Harmony. But like a piece of gum stuck to his shoe, it stretches out and he can either pretend it's not there or forcibly detach it. It's the latter he tries to do with a calm head, perhaps only as steadily balanced as it is on account of the euphoric baseline he's still living in.
He blinks a few times, considering Derek's offer before continuing. He's got both arms through the sleeves now and the jacket looks a little too large for him, like the borrowed thing it is. But it has a certain smell to it, a familiar feeling that makes it feel right. He tugs it closer to his neck, arm folding across his chest to keep it closed.]
I don't want to be... exploiting you. I'm...
[A tired, weary sigh. He rubs at his eye until he sees stars through it.]
If you're gonna act like a sugardaddy you might as well get something for it.
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Don't be stupid. We're friends.
[ he thinks. he's not sure. it's hard to say they're friends, after everything, but the word still fits right, especially after he's practiced using it so often with stiles. derek shakes his head a little, and he walks closer to tate, bridging distance. derek reaches out, and he lightly taps his knuckles against tate's shoulder, pumping his eyebrows up. his voice is quiet, almost monotone. still carefully neutral. ]
If I can make you happy, then - that's enough for me.
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[To please Derek. Although despite the intention Derek happens to have in mind, Tate's still thinking in more selective terms. He's still fooled by the false atmosphere of the elevator, the shrouded mess in his head that thinks there's still something here that's innately sexual. He's attracted to Derek and still grappling with that fact, but after a few exchanges he's had here with other people... tentatively toeing the line of what he's comfortable with and what he wants... this could be something.
And, of course, in the same way Derek actually is thinking this, Tate wants to please him too. He's got that deep seated fear of rejection, the desire of measuring up and yet simultaneously not having to be held to any ideals or any molding. He blinks when he's touched, swatting again at Derek with the splayed fingers of his hand. It's light, playful, edges on a shove.]
I'm happy right now. Are you?
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