[ a... pause. so tate's at a party? that's - good. worrying, but good. it's been on derek's mind to keep track of him, but getting shot in the arm and focusing on stiles so much has made it difficult to really strike that balance. it's frustrating, and he shouldn't have let tate slip off of his radar, but he should have known tate was going to a party. he needs to... follow him, learn about him, if he wants to bite him.
it's also... well, parties can be high-energy, high-emotional places. he hopes tate's not going to be overwhelmed. heee hopes tate isn't going to do anything he regrets, too. ]
[But he doesn't want to, not yet. He's - let loose in a way he rarely does, but how can you pass up a night full of free shit like this? What he hasn't snorted, he's taken to pocketing. Pills, powder, it's free floating and it doesn't feel real. Nothing feels real right now. Not even this text, which he sends, chuckling at nothing in particular.]
I don't thik ive ever b ene this high before that's pretty big for me, anywy
That's not exactly something you should be telling me.
[ there's no pause, this time. tate is his responsibility, even if derek hasn't managed to tell him why he feels that way. he needs to - do something, he needs to keep tate safe, he needs to get him out of there before someone sees him as a live piece of meat so easy to hunt. he's the only one capable of saving him. ]
[Tate doesn't - care to defend himself. He's having fun and the euphoria is all that he's got right now. He thinks it'd be a riot to see Derek get high too, little does he know the guy can't. Which is truly tragic.]
[ he wouldn't get high with tate even if he could, but. he's not above lying. if this is something that tate wants - well, derek needs to know that. he needs to know what tate needs, if he's going to seduce him into the bite. now, more than ever, he needs to needle his way into tate's good side, he needs to learn, he needs to listen. he needs to stop him from self-destructing, to ultimately make him better, and he can't do that if he's just this hardass tate barely even likes.
sso... ]
I don't get high at parties. I like spending time with people alone. I don't want to hang out with you if I'll have to compete for your attention. If you want me join you, fine, but. Let me bring you back to my place, at least. So it's just the two of us.
[Any other time that could be Tate picking at Derek's words to flirt, but now - he's latching on to the words and requesting confirmation. It's hard to look at his phone and follow along, so his replies are staggered as he gets distracted with what's around him.]
[ it's hard not to read into that. tate's the one at the party, tate's the one inviting him out. tate's the one whose attention is already split by bright lights and heavy drugs and stranger after stranger after stranger. derek would only be there for tate, tate wouldn't need to compete for his attention. maybe this runs deeper.
focus. get tate, bring him home, get him sober. ]
Just us. If you'd like that. It's okay if you don't. I can just stop texting you, if you want. Let you get back to your party.
[Of course it runs deeper; Tate doesn't want to go to Derek's house only to see Stiles in the same room for the first time, reminding him of the incident in the shed. The incident Tate's keen on never again referencing, almost as if it never happened. The incident that reminded him he's nothing in this machine, only a disruption to the cogs. An envious disruption.]
[ that's not to say he hasn't started moving, but that mostly means staring at the wall of an elevator for eighty storeys, so. not exactly in a rush to get directions. ]
[ 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.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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its fine. imfine.
everyhting is fine.
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[ a... pause. so tate's at a party? that's - good. worrying, but good. it's been on derek's mind to keep track of him, but getting shot in the arm and focusing on stiles so much has made it difficult to really strike that balance. it's frustrating, and he shouldn't have let tate slip off of his radar, but he should have known tate was going to a party. he needs to... follow him, learn about him, if he wants to bite him.
it's also... well, parties can be high-energy, high-emotional places. he hopes tate's not going to be overwhelmed. heee hopes tate isn't going to do anything he regrets, too. ]
Don't get too fucked up, I guess.
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[ a pause. ]
Maybe you should head home, then.
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[But he doesn't want to, not yet. He's - let loose in a way he rarely does, but how can you pass up a night full of free shit like this? What he hasn't snorted, he's taken to pocketing. Pills, powder, it's free floating and it doesn't feel real. Nothing feels real right now. Not even this text, which he sends, chuckling at nothing in particular.]
I don't thik ive ever b ene this high before
that's pretty big
for me, anywy
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[ there's no pause, this time. tate is his responsibility, even if derek hasn't managed to tell him why he feels that way. he needs to - do something, he needs to keep tate safe, he needs to get him out of there before someone sees him as a live piece of meat so easy to hunt. he's the only one capable of saving him. ]
I'm going to come get you.
Where are you?
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you like coke?
[Tate doesn't - care to defend himself. He's having fun and the euphoria is all that he's got right now. He thinks it'd be a riot to see Derek get high too, little does he know the guy can't. Which is truly tragic.]
come join me
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sso... ]
I don't get high at parties. I like spending time with people alone.
I don't want to hang out with you if I'll have to compete for your attention.
If you want me join you, fine, but.
Let me bring you back to my place, at least. So it's just the two of us.
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just us
only us?
[Any other time that could be Tate picking at Derek's words to flirt, but now - he's latching on to the words and requesting confirmation. It's hard to look at his phone and follow along, so his replies are staggered as he gets distracted with what's around him.]
i don't wnt to compete for y our attention either
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focus. get tate, bring him home, get him sober. ]
Just us. If you'd like that. It's okay if you don't.
I can just stop texting you, if you want. Let you get back to your party.
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i dont know
[That's that for a bit, before:]
r u coming?
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[ that's not to say he hasn't started moving, but that mostly means staring at the wall of an elevator for eighty storeys, so. not exactly in a rush to get directions. ]
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[Facts.]
okay. hold on
you're coming though right
you'll come?
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Yes.
I would like to see you.
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[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?
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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.
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[Tate's laughing to himself, unheard.]
correction. 1 friend
2 i guess
if I let u count me
I will be OUTSIDe.
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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. ]
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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.
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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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