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He turns away from the cacophony before the stage, cold and shaking fingers pressing the phone to his ear with nearly painful determination. Someone collides carelessly into his left shoulder, but he doesn't even hear the light, slurred apology that follows it. The phone rings dully through his head, echoing off sharp, raw edges. After three relentless dial-tones, the machine picks up.
"This is Derek," a deep, hard voice grumbles into the receiver end, fond annoyance clear in his static-tinged voice. There's the sound of a scuffling, maybe the phone being grabbed away, and then a new voice. "Yeah, if he's not answering, we're probably having sex--" The former voice breaks through faintly in the background, tone somewhere between irate, amused, and aroused. "Stiles!" Beep.
"I'm at the concert. Without you. I sold your ticket last week."
"'This is Derek,' 'Yeah, if he's not answering, we're probably having sex--', 'Stiles!'" Beep.
"Some guy's wearing your ridiculous green Henley shirt, and he won't stop appearing out of thin air everywhere I go."
"'This is Derek,' 'Yeah, if he's not answering, we're probably having sex--,' 'Stiles!'" Beep.
"It looks better on him."
"'--Yeah, if he's not answering, we're probably having sex--', 'Stiles!'" Beep.
"Please change that."
"'--We're probably having sex--', 'Stiles!'" Beep.
"I sound like a drunk asshole there."
"--'We're probably having sex--', 'Stiles!'" Beep.
"Turns out, you're the drunk asshole."
"--'Stiles!'" Beep.
"Who cheats with his psycho ex."
"--'Stiles!'" Beep.
"I'm glad you're not here."
Beep.
"Kate's a bitch, and I can't get properly dead-to-the-world drunk and forget about your stupid face with her superpowers of buzz-killing around."
Beep.
"Hey--out of curiosity--let me ask you this. Why her? Why that ex? Why not Paige or Isaac or Erica? If you were going to go off and tear my insides apart by cheating, why did it have to be Kate that you did it with? Actually, why at all? Why did you leave me, Derek? Why did you fuck her? Why was it so goddamn important to you to rip out my heart, huh? Can you at least tell me that? Or, if that's too hard, what about this. Why did you have to drive her home after, Derek?! Why did you have to get behind the fucking wheel, really!?!? You already killed me, Derek, you already ended my life. Why--may I ask--did you end yours too? 'Cause I've been sitting in an empty apartment for six fucking months staring at a stack of junk-mail with your name on it, and that's actually eating at my insides at this point. And I'm sitting here wondering, every day, every hour, if there was something--anything--I could've done to keep you from walking away that night, from going--"
"Your recording has reached its maximum limit. To hear it, press 1. To send it, press pound or hang u--"
Beep.
"Disregard that..."
Beep.
"I love you."
Beep.
"Disregard that."
Beep.
"I love you."
"'I'm sorry, but the voicemail box belonging to--DEREK HALE--is full. Please try your call again later'." Beep.