#payphone

holbrook, ariz. december 2025

this time. drunk and fucked up reader who is lost in the city, calls dazai off a payphone to pick them up :3

Ｐａｙｐｈｏｎｅ

⌯⌲ hi baby, i am in a mood today so this might get a little melancholic but still sweet. this is a little longer than average.

You should have known better than to get drunk at a bar in a city you just recently moved to and still don’t really know your way around. You also should have known better than to try walking off on your own. You stood in an alley at one point after exiting, eyes crossed, hand to the brick wall, holding yourself up and together the best you could. Your friends left before you, saying you should be able to handle getting home by yourself. Though, you’re now wondering if those are even good, reliable friends. Alcohol can make you think evil things.

The world spins with you, stumbling over yourself, others, stray animals, inanimate objects. You’ve fallen to your knees, hardly protected by your jeans, a couple of times now, blinking rapidly or squeezing your eyes shut a few times in succession to make sure you’re actually alive. Your brain feels like someone placed it on a fluff bed of clouds, each crevice being caressed by what you can only assume is cotton balls. Clouds aren’t made of cotton balls.

Your palms are flat in front of you on the ground, on your knees once more, and you aren’t exactly sure where you are. The streetlights your only illumination, but not a perfect guide to get you home. If anything, they’re luring you away to the depths of the city where who only knows what lurks in the shadows. The back of your hand presses to your forehead, sweat forming and sticking to your skin, and you have to avoid moving your head too much. Pretend to be normal and everything will be fine.

Earth is usually more at a standstill during these hours. Yet it still spins on its axis, and you can feel the planet turning underneath your feet as you stand up, wobbly, and your stomach churns. Never mix bar food with your liquor, unless you wanna be sicker.

A small huff comes from you, eyes unfocused again, limbs heavy and useless, patting around in your pockets to realize your phone isn’t there. Your bag is missing too, not feeling it hitting your hip as you walk, but your wallet’s there. Oh right, you didn’t bring a bag. Wait — shit, where’s my phone?

Your legs carry you the best they can, your steps big and exaggerated, stomping on the pavement as you attempt maintaining your footing, the haze of your last cocktail overwhelming your vision, and it’s somehow getting a little darker. You definitely don’t recognize anything, and it’s not because you’re bordering blackout drunk. Your eyes move, scared to swivel your head around in case of human-made motion sickness, and the streetlights have vanished. You’re at the edge of the city, and you don’t know too well how you got there. Trees and bushes sway gently in the night by the soft wind, tousling some hair into your face, and your shoulders slump.

Your feet move for you, circling you back, in search of light or civilization. In your linear path, as if brought down by the heavens and aglow by their angelic beams, a payphone is off in the distance with enough luminance to keep you from being afraid of the dark. You trudge, each step now skidding across the asphalt, the sound of your shoes scuffing along and moving loose pebbles filling the quiet void, and somewhere — so far out into the distance that it doesn’t feel like it’s on the same universe as you — a car horn blares and some dogs start barking. Maybe I’m not all alone.

With much success, or a miracle, you make it to the payphone, leaning against the outside panel and silently praying to your new savior. The illness that made itself known way back before the grasslands is back, and you groan under your breath as you try to hold it down. I shouldn’t have gotten the tempura. You had six baskets — to yourself.

Your hand fumbles around on the handle, slipping a few times whenever you try to grasp it, forehead pressed against the cool glass, and you have to squeeze your eyes shut to lose focus so your motor skills kick into autopilot and grab the handle. Once it connects, fingers wrapping around, you exhale before carefully opening your eyes, and you yank the door open to literally slide and slump into the box. Your back collides with the phone, sending a sharp sting that is not dulled at all by the toxins running through your bloodstream. If anything, it heightened your nerves and made you feel it with intensity kicked up ten notches.

Once you’ve collected yourself, you get the door shut and turn to face it, seeing it only takes coins, and you stall as you stare. The numbers are blurred and tiny, suddenly two phones are sitting in front of you, and the bile is trying to sneak its way up to you again. You blink, hand slipping down in your pocket for your wallet, and fingers rummage around in it for a couple coins. Everything your skin touches feels fuzzy and dense, as if you’re a walking plushie needing attention.

One, two, three… expensive ass phone call.

Your hand moves, slowly, at its own leisure, to grab the neck, lifting it from the cradle, and press the receiver to your ear. Your finger hovers over the keypad, mind a muddled mess, and you sigh. You’re tired, you can’t think properly, and your body is starting to hurt. With a quiet hum and lids dropping once again, your finger languidly punches in a phone number you didn’t think you had memorized.

It rings, only a few times, before the line picks up and a distressed voice is in the other end. “Hello?”

“I found… I found a payphone,” you struggle to speak, every word taking your breath, and they all feel like your last. “I found a payphone.” You repeat, making your voice more steady and tone firm.

“Oh, thank fuck,” he whispers on the other line, relieved, running a hand down his face. “Where are you?”

“Lost… L-Lost my ph-one,” your speech breaks, gagging some that you have to swallow back.

“I know, I have it here at the bar where I thought you’d be,” he speaks kindly to you, but only because he can tell in the way you’re talking you’re so beyond fucked up he needs to keep you calm to find you. “You weren’t answering, my darling, you had me so worried.” He consoles you, his hand shaking that he has to force-grip the bar top to make it stop.

“‘Sssssssssssss-Samu,” you finally get his name out, whining a bit at the end. “‘Samu.” You sniffle, the realization hitting your drunken brain that you’re lost with no idea how to get back.

“Tell me where you are, I’ll come get you,” Dazai’s already rushing out of the bar, eyes alert at every corner and every body that walks by, hoping one will be you.

“… Only number I knew,” you murmur, gripping the phone tight in your white knuckles, forehead on the glass, and tears are forming that make your throat start to close up. “Don’t know. I’m scared.” You admit.

“Can you describe what you see? At all? Work with me, babe, so I can find you faster,” he’s trying to be encouraging, but he’s getting scared too. The city’s big, you’re delirious, and it’s pretty dark.

“Trees,” you breathe. “Lots and lots of trees. Bushes. Grass. Statue? Yeah, s-statue. Looks like man, and… and…” You veer off, a woman’s voice in your ear speaking over him telling you you’re almost out of time. “Building. Street. Five streets.” You get out before the line cuts out, the mean robot lady saying your call ended due to exceeding your minutes.

“Five streets?” He repeats, brows coming together, concerned eyes seeing the street names on the signs. Fifth street. “Hey, I know where you are. Just stay put.” He didn’t notice the call already ended. “Hello?” When he pulls it back to just see his lockscreen with a photo of you, his heart nearly jumps out of his chest, but he has to ignore it so he can race his way down the sidewalks to get to you.

He bumps into a lot of stragglers, far too many for after midnight. Not that he should dictate how they spend their late nights, but surely some of them have better things to do in the morning than waste time roaming the streets of Yokohama and blocking his path that leads to you.

It takes some time, but he eventually gets to where you are, wondering how in the world could you have made it this far on your own? You’re sitting down, slumped back against the payphone panel, securely inside, and you’re sound asleep. Dazai walks up, carefully knocking on the door as to not startle you, but he sees your eyes closed and shirt covered in vomit. “Oh no, you darling thing.” He murmurs to himself, brows downturned with immense worry, getting the door opened and reaching in to lift you from the ground. He helps adjust your body so you’re as comfortable as possible, your head on his shoulder, and he sighs as he peers out into the empty street, wondering how long it will take to get a cab or if it’d even be worth it.

“Let’s get you home and get you a bath,” he whispers, shrugging off his coat while he clings to you, then drapes it over your very still body. He watches closely at your chest, seeing it rise and fall like it should be, before beginning the journey back to his dorm. “Gonna have to handcuff you to me next time so you don’t go wandering off.” He presses a kiss to your forehead, knowing you can’t hear a word he’s saying, and he starts humming a tune to fill the silence of the evening on the edge of the city.

i like to think dazai would make a good caregiver if he really put his mind to it.

- ghxst

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