My Telephone Number's 34519
This little ficlet was inspired by a kink meme prompt of a magic phone booth that lets a person call someone they love and the receiver of the call will return that love because of its magical powers. Someone already filled this on the meme, but I liked the idea, and so I used it with one of my favorite couples again. I like to imagine the phone booth looks different to every person who finds it. This is just a short, simple little plot, so I hope it's still enjoyable.
The title is from a Song Styles from Niall sung to Mark the Bank Manager. From the bank that likes to say yes, according to Clive. I love Clive.
The phone booth looked no different from any of the few others Benzaie had seen in his lifetime, aside from being bright pink in color, but as he stared up at the gold lettering reading TELEPHONE atop the door, he swallowed involuntarily and shifted where stood. His nerves were justified, for this was no ordinary pink phone booth; it was the site where breaths were held and stomachs fluttered with butterflies and hearts were unburdened from the often painful shackles binding them. It was the phone booth of legends, where the caller was ensured the love of the person speaking on the other end.
Such a legend was ridiculous, Benzaie had thought that even when he’d first read about it on a website so many months ago. Yet the normally carefree reviewer had not been able to stop thinking about the phone booth or the desires it promised to fulfill since that day, and so he’d set about during every spare moment he had searching for it. After too many false leads to tally and numerous nights ending in bitter disappointment, Benzaie finally located the mystical stall one evening at the end of a desolate road not even a mile from his home.
He’d spent that day talking on Skype with a few of his reviewer friends, only to hear several start talking about upcoming plans they had with their significant others. While Benzaie smiled along as they discussed their romantic getaways and movie nights that often led to more passionate exploits, inside he felt only longing and sadness that he was forced to spend yet another lonely night in his tiny apartment. He’d excused himself early from the discussion and decided to take a walk, hoping the cool air of dusk would clear his mind and soothe his heart.
It was during this excursion that Benzaie stumbled upon the phone booth, standing on the sidewalk before him like a pink beacon on a stormy night. He stumbled quickly toward the booth on legs that had almost forgotten how to walk and placed one hand upon the paned-glass door, savoring the gentle presence that seemed to seep from the booth’s very core.
“I can’t believe it,” Benzaie whispered, trailing his fingers down the glass before they wrapped around the knob. He pulled hesitantly and the door opened, the presence growing stronger, as if beckoning him to enter. Benzaie quickly shoved one hand into his pocket and sighed with relief when he pulled out the necessary coins to complete the call.
With a quick glance around to make sure no one was watching him, Benzaie slipped inside the booth and closed the door. With a trembling hand, he reached out to grab the golden phone and put it to his ear. A pleasant humming sound was coming from the earpiece, and despite his quickened heartbeat and sweaty palms, Benzaie felt a wave of confidence wash over him. He lifted his other hand to drop the coins, which had grown rather warm in his grasp, into the slot. Then he dialed the number he could have recalled in his sleep and bit down on his bottom lip.
“Hello?” the other man said, picking up on the first ring. Benzaie almost gasped, but managed to regain his composure quickly.
“I-I need to tell you something,” he said in a rushed voice quite unlike his own. It seemed in his panic, Benzaie had dropped his French accent for something more American sounding without even meaning too.
“Who is this?” the other man asked, suspicion coloring his tone.
“A friend,” Benzaie continued, still using the strange accent. “A friend who’s worked with you many times and has always enjoyed hanging out with you. A friend who enjoys being in your company more than in any other person’s. A friend… a friend who loves you!”
There was silence on the other end, allowing Benzaie to hear his heart thumping in his ears.
“Is this a joke?” the other man asked slowly, still sounding suspicious.
“No, I swear, it isn’t!” Benzaie blurted out, his accent now becoming a mangled blend of French and American. “I love you, I really love, and I have for a long time! I just never had the courage to tell you until now, but I want to spend the rest of my life with you watching movies and playing games and doing whatever the fuck you want to do! I want to make you happy because whenever I’m with you, no matter how much I may complain and bitch about shit, I’m the happiest I’ve ever been, Phelous!”
“Benzaie? Is that you?”
A wave of panic overtook the previous batch of confidence he’d felt and Benzaie slammed the phone against the receiver, breathing heavily and looking terrified.
“What-what the fuck did I just do?” he moaned, banging angrily against the side of the phone booth. “I just fucked everything up, didn’t I? He’s never going to want to be around me again now!” Benzaie roughly shoved open the door of the phone booth and slammed it harshly back into place before turning to leave.
Just then, before his anger could melt into despair, Benzaie froze when he felt his cell phone buzz, indicating he’d just received a text. Without thinking, he pulled it from his pocket and stared down at the tiny words on the screen.
‘Hey. I was thinking maybe you could come for a visit soon. We could watch movies or play games or do whatever the fuck you want to do. I need to give you an answer, anyway, and I’d rather say yes to you in person than on the phone.’
“Oh my God,” Benzaie whispered, feeling his heart leap with joy. “Phelous, you… you’ve made me so happy. Wait-was it all because of the phone booth?” He turned back around, wanting to shout words of praise and thanks at the mystical pink stall, and even apologize for treating it so harshly mere moments ago.
But the phone booth was gone, leaving behind an empty piece of sidewalk and a lingering sensation of accomplishment that was soon carried away by the wind.
The title is from a Song Styles from Niall sung to Mark the Bank Manager. From the bank that likes to say yes, according to Clive. I love Clive.
The phone booth looked no different from any of the few others Benzaie had seen in his lifetime, aside from being bright pink in color, but as he stared up at the gold lettering reading TELEPHONE atop the door, he swallowed involuntarily and shifted where stood. His nerves were justified, for this was no ordinary pink phone booth; it was the site where breaths were held and stomachs fluttered with butterflies and hearts were unburdened from the often painful shackles binding them. It was the phone booth of legends, where the caller was ensured the love of the person speaking on the other end.
Such a legend was ridiculous, Benzaie had thought that even when he’d first read about it on a website so many months ago. Yet the normally carefree reviewer had not been able to stop thinking about the phone booth or the desires it promised to fulfill since that day, and so he’d set about during every spare moment he had searching for it. After too many false leads to tally and numerous nights ending in bitter disappointment, Benzaie finally located the mystical stall one evening at the end of a desolate road not even a mile from his home.
He’d spent that day talking on Skype with a few of his reviewer friends, only to hear several start talking about upcoming plans they had with their significant others. While Benzaie smiled along as they discussed their romantic getaways and movie nights that often led to more passionate exploits, inside he felt only longing and sadness that he was forced to spend yet another lonely night in his tiny apartment. He’d excused himself early from the discussion and decided to take a walk, hoping the cool air of dusk would clear his mind and soothe his heart.
It was during this excursion that Benzaie stumbled upon the phone booth, standing on the sidewalk before him like a pink beacon on a stormy night. He stumbled quickly toward the booth on legs that had almost forgotten how to walk and placed one hand upon the paned-glass door, savoring the gentle presence that seemed to seep from the booth’s very core.
“I can’t believe it,” Benzaie whispered, trailing his fingers down the glass before they wrapped around the knob. He pulled hesitantly and the door opened, the presence growing stronger, as if beckoning him to enter. Benzaie quickly shoved one hand into his pocket and sighed with relief when he pulled out the necessary coins to complete the call.
With a quick glance around to make sure no one was watching him, Benzaie slipped inside the booth and closed the door. With a trembling hand, he reached out to grab the golden phone and put it to his ear. A pleasant humming sound was coming from the earpiece, and despite his quickened heartbeat and sweaty palms, Benzaie felt a wave of confidence wash over him. He lifted his other hand to drop the coins, which had grown rather warm in his grasp, into the slot. Then he dialed the number he could have recalled in his sleep and bit down on his bottom lip.
“Hello?” the other man said, picking up on the first ring. Benzaie almost gasped, but managed to regain his composure quickly.
“I-I need to tell you something,” he said in a rushed voice quite unlike his own. It seemed in his panic, Benzaie had dropped his French accent for something more American sounding without even meaning too.
“Who is this?” the other man asked, suspicion coloring his tone.
“A friend,” Benzaie continued, still using the strange accent. “A friend who’s worked with you many times and has always enjoyed hanging out with you. A friend who enjoys being in your company more than in any other person’s. A friend… a friend who loves you!”
There was silence on the other end, allowing Benzaie to hear his heart thumping in his ears.
“Is this a joke?” the other man asked slowly, still sounding suspicious.
“No, I swear, it isn’t!” Benzaie blurted out, his accent now becoming a mangled blend of French and American. “I love you, I really love, and I have for a long time! I just never had the courage to tell you until now, but I want to spend the rest of my life with you watching movies and playing games and doing whatever the fuck you want to do! I want to make you happy because whenever I’m with you, no matter how much I may complain and bitch about shit, I’m the happiest I’ve ever been, Phelous!”
“Benzaie? Is that you?”
A wave of panic overtook the previous batch of confidence he’d felt and Benzaie slammed the phone against the receiver, breathing heavily and looking terrified.
“What-what the fuck did I just do?” he moaned, banging angrily against the side of the phone booth. “I just fucked everything up, didn’t I? He’s never going to want to be around me again now!” Benzaie roughly shoved open the door of the phone booth and slammed it harshly back into place before turning to leave.
Just then, before his anger could melt into despair, Benzaie froze when he felt his cell phone buzz, indicating he’d just received a text. Without thinking, he pulled it from his pocket and stared down at the tiny words on the screen.
‘Hey. I was thinking maybe you could come for a visit soon. We could watch movies or play games or do whatever the fuck you want to do. I need to give you an answer, anyway, and I’d rather say yes to you in person than on the phone.’
“Oh my God,” Benzaie whispered, feeling his heart leap with joy. “Phelous, you… you’ve made me so happy. Wait-was it all because of the phone booth?” He turned back around, wanting to shout words of praise and thanks at the mystical pink stall, and even apologize for treating it so harshly mere moments ago.
But the phone booth was gone, leaving behind an empty piece of sidewalk and a lingering sensation of accomplishment that was soon carried away by the wind.