*harley
Three years later. Stiles and Scott had to skip town(s). Beacon Hills got too dangerous. Everything changed.
He isn't even sure if this is her number anymore. He isn't even sure where he is, or what he's been drinking, but he knows he misses her.
"Your call has been forwarded to an automated voice message system 415-284-9041 is not available. At the tone, please record your message. when you are finished recording, you may hang up, or press 1 for more options. To leave a callback number, press 9."
Stiles rests his bleeding forehead on the glass pane of the phone booth, and it's cold against his skin. The snow outside isn't helping. It's hard for him to think straight, and he grips at the bruise forming on his side.
"Hey, Capone. It's me," He grunts, wincing. "I don't even know if-- if this is still your phone number. I know it's been a while. I know I up and left without saying anything. And I'm sorry. I just...needed to say this, I guess."
He pauses then, swallowing at the blood threatening to drip from his lips. "You were way more important to me than I led on. You're, uh-- you're different. From everyone. I loved you for that."
His vision started to darken then, and tunnels of blackness seemed to enclose on his peripherals. "It's almost like-- like I couldn't tell the difference between when you punched my cheek or kissed it."
The last thing Stiles heard before he blacked out was dial tone.
