#also idk if I'll write anything else for blasetober but this has been sitting in my docs forEVER and I figured it was a good excuse to share

[queen-eevee]

Blasetober Day Four: Feedback | The Devil Goes Down to the Georgias (AKA Hiroto and Famous have a conversation about feedback)

Hiroto’s phone rings as soon as she closes the door to her room. She fishes it out of her pocket and answers without a glance at the caller ID, lowering herself onto the edge of the hotel’s way-too-hard couch. The first thing she hears is the soft crackle of static on the other end. And then:

“Fuck you.”

“Good evening to you too, Famous,” Hiroto mutters. “Miss me already?”

“Ah yes, good evening, Hiroto, darling. What the hell.”

Hiroto scrunches her nose. She hadn’t expected Famous of all people to call, certainly not to just scold her. If it wasn’t for the unfortunate fact that the sound of their voice was relaxing the tension housed in her sternum, she would hang up entirely. That doesn’t mean she has to enjoy being patronized.

“You know I had no control over this,” she starts, feeling her temper begin to claw at the back of her throat. She stands from the couch too quickly, nearly falls. “If I did, do you think I really would have chosen fucking Atlantis—”

“Not that,” Famous interrupts, sharply, startling Hiroto out of the beginnings of a rant. “For the love of violence, why did you appoint me as Captain?!”

Oh. Yeah. She had nearly forgotten about that. Hiroto flops back down with a grunt. 

“Well, who the hell else was it going to be? I wasn’t going to choose Beasley.”

She hears Famous scoff on the other end of the phone and imagines them pressing their tongue against the inside of their cheek, like they always do when they’re annoyed with her. 

“Ms. Melcon is more than capable.”

“And give her even more cause for anxiety?” Hiroto draws her legs up underneath herself. “Besides, Mummy and I were both one bad day away from joining everyone else in the Shadows. And then I still would have had to ask Fearful to make you Captain.”

“Ha, ha,” Famous deadpans, unamused. “At least you would have had the common decency to grant me a rehearsal.”

They spit the words like an insult, but Hiroto’s known them for too many years to not hear the admission for what it is: the mask, slipping. So she pauses, tucking the phone against her cheek.

“Is that why you’re mad?”

A long, heaved sigh. “I was never mad, darling.”

“I don’t know, ‘Fuck you’ comes across as pretty mad.” 

“Fine, I was upset. You of all people should understand.”

Hiroto does. “So what, then? Do you want me to take it back?”

Famous doesn’t respond. Hiroto almost appreciates the awkward silence; it gives her a chance to listen to whatever sounds of the team house she can glean from the other end of the line. She thinks she can hear Ayanna’s loud voice coming in flits and bursts over the receiver, notes of classical music played from a tinny speaker, and, if she strains, she can hear her crows cawing from their perches near the dugout. The sudden rush of homesickness gives her vertigo. She steadies herself with a hand on the armrest.

“You know,” Hiroto continues when Famous doesn’t reply, “most Captains don’t even get to choose their successors. Consider yourself special.”

No clever response, just a huff to show that they were listening. Hiroto frowns. Then groans.

“Look, I didn’t get to choose before Seattle or the Elsewhere. And this feels...” She swallows. “Less temporary. The team needed to be left in good hands.”

There’s another long stretch of silence, before Famous finally hums. Hiroto wishes she was there so she could tell what they were thinking.

“The Stripes were worried you were going to fight Ms. Chark just to stay on that mound,” they muse, their teasing sounding almost wistful. Or maybe proud. Hard to tell over the phone. “Did you pick up that little trick from Mx. Figueroa?”

Hiroto snorts out a weak laugh. “I honestly didn’t think it would work,” she admits, plucking a loose string on the upholstery absentmindedly. “Dunlap didn’t teach me how to do it, I just...didn’t want to stop pitching.”

“Careful, darling, you almost sound sentimental.”

Hiroto laughs, falling onto her back and throwing an arm over her eyes. “Gods, you’re such a pain.”

“You made me Captain.”

“Lapse in judgement. I should have gone with Lottie. I’m taking it back.”

“Promise?”

“Hell no.” Hiroto grins, her voice shaking with amusement. “You’ll be fine. I have a binder of Captain things in my hole in left field and a filing cabinet in my office, in the room to the right of the concession stand.”

Famous makes a noise of disgust. “And what in god’s name am I supposed to do with leftover paperwork?” 

“You wanted preparation. There’s your study material.”

Hiroto can practically see the miserable look on their face. “What a gift.” She laughs again.

Suddenly, there’s a knock on her door. A muffled voice—Geraldine’s maybe?—lets her know that there’s room service food outside if she’s hungry. She covers the receiver to yell out her thanks and then turns back to Famous.

“Hey, I have to go, Captain—”

“Yes, all right, I—What did you just call me—?”

“—but I’ll talk to you later. Don’t forget to check in on the Shadows every now and then.”

“—I’ll kill you for that, Wilcox.”

Hiroto smirks, tongue between her lips. “You’ve threatened worse for less.” 

Finding her chest suddenly feeling tight, her mouth goes dry at the prospect of hanging up and being left with only the murmurs of the hotel guests again, but she forces herself to focus on the sound of Famous’s indignant muttering instead. She notices they aren’t hanging up first. She smiles. And she’s sentimental.

“Hey. Shut up. Go sleep, Captain.”

“Fuck you.” It’s said with a playful vitriol this time, she can tell. Hiroto cackles. “Farewell then, Hiroto. Prepare yourself to witness our victory in the morning.”

“Yeah, right. I hope Ortiz strikes you out so goddamn hard.”