Matte Interchange

Written by Septia.

Another morning. Another bowl of porridge; milk enough for only a few spoonfuls, and no more toppings. Met was starting to really feel the In the spirit of the Tygla fast now. -Ghhrbrbgllsh- and by the sound of it, Tam's belly concurred. The wringing of hunger rustled the air between the siblings at the table.
“Don't listen to em,” Tam assured and brandished his spoon, “They might complain, but I'm not.” He dug into breakfast, styled hair drills bobbing at the sides of his face, glistening with nourishing grease.
Met peered into the bowl. Her hooves tapping the legs of the chair. “How'd you handle, if I ceased contributing to the bill?” Met posed.
“Guess I would have to kick you out on your soft ass back on the pavement, sis,” Tam responded with a chuckle. Tam's chuckles subsided. Three scoops of porridge later, they looked up at Met, who remained silent. Tam swallowed to clear their throat. “Sis?”
Met matched their gaze. “The bakery's shut down, I've got the last cash, that's it…”
“I know. I'm gonna miss the place.” Tam's response, averting their gaze, the air dampened.
“Will you?”
Tam snapped back. “Bro, I wasn't serious about kicking you out, piggy bank. You'll be back on the ball (lickety split), bro, there'll be a lot of openings after tygl-.”
-Kkgnnrhrhdtd- Met's fist trembled on the tabletop, bowls rattling, the milk pack tumbled over from the quake, deluging its content into a pool of matte white. Met's breathing droned out the atmosphere… their horns rattling.
Tam put down their spoon. “I'm sorry, bro.”
“Pheea…,” Met scoffed, “'bout time you apologised.”
Tam prolonged the silence.
“You think I don't notice, I've really been a piggy bank for ya... so much of your lil' hobby supplies. I've picked up by now, spending most of it all on you, all until I'm not needed anymore…, and.. g-g… tossed out, on the streets, again…”
“I'll… I will take care of that now. You do not have to concern yourself, babe, stay as long as you please, always spare a bed for-.”
“Don't… use that voice on me… It is the one you use when you are out hitting on dumb chicks.”
Tam took a deep breath in through their nose. They notice Met still wore the (bandage) tucking back her chest. Even with the two of them now, she didn't want to allude to that part of herself. “Bro, what's, going on…?”
“You know what?” Met said and pushed themselves back from the table, the milk from the carton now scrawled into a lake between them. “I've been boggled by that too. After everything that's happened, after the years I spent without you… why would you just invite me to live with you? I wanted to figure out who you were, are, but I can't see how you would have changed… so after all this time, keeping me right here,” she clutched over her chest, “Why haven't you eaten me?”
Tam's pupils jittered, the rest of him calcified in the chair.
The question hovered between them..
Met tightened her fist, “How would it be any different from what you already-”
“I don't…,” Tam interrupted, then lingered, “I don't eat guys, bro.” Tam muttered.
“That's a weak excuse… Brother.”
Tam winced. The last word piercing through him, putting him on the spot. If anyone, they both knew the other's identity, their reasons. Tam shrunk back. “I just… want to make sure, my lil'… bro lives comfortably. What, do you think'm lying?”
“Yes.”
“…”
“Yes, I do. If it is you, I anticipate it. That's what you do..”
Tam said nothing.
“I wanted to hope, “I was on my own for so long.”
Tam said nothing.
“Do you think I could ever just, trust you? I've been lying every day, scared, anxious, on guard against you.”
Tam, said: “Why did you stay?”
An uneasy emptiness blanketed around them. Met's lips, jittering. She sniffled.
Tam trailed their sister with his eyes, as she left the table, got dressed, and removed herself from the apartment. Eventually, his eyes drifted back to her seat, to the untouched porridge, and to the puddle of spilled milk. He stood the carton upright. Saving a (slurp) of milk, though with all the rest dripping down the table, the question remained, if there was a point in saving the little that had stayed.

~ 1 ~

The wood creaked in resistance to the knocks. The first left unanswered. He tried again. But nothing still. He took in a deep breath. And tried, the knocking code he had been taught long ago, doubting it would have remained the same after they had moved the whole operation to another city. Yet this time, there was a patter of footsteps in response.
“We do, sincerely apologise, though the hotel has yet to formally open for the public. We would suggest that you inquire for another vestige to rest, seeing as we are also fully booked.” Came a voice from behind the door, practised, rigid, sturdy…
“Hey Prachio,” Met mumbled.
A rattle of chains and number keys rustled behind the door, until it opened a sliver, a single eye peering through.
“Oh, so you have deemed it fit to show up? How fortuitous we are, what matter of serendipity have summoned you?”
“All the rooms are full, huh?” Met thrust into the conversation, scratching his right horn, “got any to spare for a gutter tramp like me?”
The single eye gleamed, as the alleyway begun to stink with opportunity. “Always.”
“Even if he's... hungry?”
“Especially.”

~ 2 ~

-Oohhourraalrlps- Met let the gullet pressure growl past his lips in a ripple of comforting steam. Adding to the humid atmosphere of the room under renovations. He brushed over his gut, gnawing on his lower lip as he felt it -Shrlpgths- Ghhrglgs- a slog and slosh to and fro of the sluggish heap on their abdomen. Met scritched some moss out of their furry thigh, feeling a ripple of fumes trailing up from their pot-belly. -Ghhrbrbghgss- -Bhuraaawooorrsulp- “Mmm, pha…,” he sighed, rubbing his head back on the pillow, savouring the sensation of sinking into the duvet covered mattress, and nursing a stuffed gut. If his gut had been crammed with a bit more, regular foodstuffs, it might have been preferable, Prachio had a good amount of, evidence, he wanted to be rid of. Though, it beat porridge, that was certain. Met surveyed the room, a spacious deal, featuring ragged carpeting, moderately torched – yet still functional – furniture, and a ceiling which didn't leak. …mostly.
“My own room…” Met mumbled. Still, it felt strange. Despite its name, the (hotel for all) seemed to service more, permanent living situations. As long as Prachio was still running it, and as long as it wasn't opened to the public, it was his room. Here he could eat his fill, a luxury during the Tygla fast, when most ordinary access to sustenance laid restricted. It had been a good few days. Quiet. That was… fine… an electric chill prickled his cheek, carving a path past their cheek, and leaving a crescent of prickles in its wake.
“I don't see why he gets the suite…” A voice on the other side of the wall chimed in.
“You start squatting out money when you go potty and we'll consider upgrading ya,” a tomboy in a sighing tone responded.
“Pheewh, that's not all it is, right?”
“It’s hard to ignore, you know there's been a lack… who are… ble…” The voices faded as they continued down the corridor. Met stared back at the ceiling. He already knew. And didn't mind. He still had to earn a place in this world. Be that with through working an honest job, contributing to the land, or providing other… services... He sighed, tracing their palm against the stuffed gut. Slowly churning, to fabricate another batch of his coins. Evidence, liquidated to silver… Maybe this haul would be less crooked than the last. Met peered down at their chest, holding over the bandage holding it down. He undid the knot, and peeled it off, to let his compressed breasts slump free. Maybe… maybe she just needed a moment to let her breathe.