Tate's mouth hitches just a little, but he crosses the space between them easily. There's no rush in his steps, but no tentativeness in his gesture when he approaches. It's an odd sense, the familiarity with which he moves to stand next to where Crane sits.

He's been careful to keep it a secret. It was always a secret, what went on in his head. What he was capable of. Most people didn't understand him, not in the slightest. They didn't get that he did these things for a reason. Chad and Patrick had to die; and She had needed a baby. Scaring that cheerleader was as much pleasure as it was to get her off of Violet's back because she's was a slutty bitch.

The cap pops off the antiseptic, and Tate spreads it on his fingers. His eyes are too dark under the shadow of pale lashes, and he presses the pads of his fingertips over the shallow slice created by that lord's rings. If Crane had a problem with this invasion of personal space, Tate didn't seem to notice, or care, but his voice is low when he speaks between them. "Who says it's my first time?"