Matte Privacy

Written by Septia.

Met's eyes darted open. Only to creak back closed in a reflex to the light. Light. Open once more. It was day. And if it was day, he was late. Cofn wasn't one to scold, but there was no way he could leave her alone at the bakery, just needed to strap on the apron and-.
The satyr remembered. They remembered at the sight of the shaggy walls, the only somewhat smoldered furniture, and the serenity of the wide open space stretching out before them: this was his room. His room, in Hall: the Hotel for all. Their shoulders slumped. The stress fading into a memory, joining the rest of the thoughts of Cast-dough bakery, their boss, the customers. It was just them now, they could breathe out. Good. There was nothing to worry about.
What day was it even? Been here for, three nights, so, Sunday? Yeah. Here there was no one who would blame him for just slipping back into bed. The gravity of the mattress ensnared their thighs, their fur sinking into the stuffing… he rose. Breath caught in his throat.
“Who has time for sleeping?” Met smacked their lips shut. That was talking. That, that wasn't thinking. He'd just said that out loud. Maybe if they just sit down again for a moment and think-… The blanket still swept away, an inviting fold they could snuggle back into…

Met's rump came to a rest on the cold wooden stool, a brief glance to their bedding, done up and folded straight as an envelope. Good, he could think now. Their eyelid twitched. What were they gonna think about? What was there to think about? Their eyes scanned the room. Right, clothes. His tail wagged as he skipped across the floor. Considering he was getting a salary on top of lodging from Prachio, perhaps he could go out and get some nice clothes for himself.
They opened the first drawer to take stock. Shirts. Plain, but varied. Light, dark, grey, and a few patterns. They were, kinda cute. So, Prachio had already thought of that. That was, kind. Though, he was always kind. Alright. Then, what about the second drawer? Met wasn't one to wear pants around their fur. So that one had to be empty-. Bandages. A row of bandages, lined up neat. Wide, soft… Met's palm instinctively went to their chest. Had to have been a few weeks since they changed it. He wriggled out of his shirt, where his breasts laid shackled by the fabric. Met planted their palm over the bandage, the mummy wrappings caging his identity, his shield throughout all the years on the streets Beurua, the cold Utland nights. He surveyed the room again. There was still no one.

~ 1 ~

Met stepped out of the room. Taking in a long breath. His chest swelling out-… then meeting the fresh bandage.
“Least a little looser,” Met mumbled. Realization struck him in the back of the head like a dumbbell. They did have a job. What was Prachio gonna say if he was late? Probably something like 'Just when I had not expected your arrival, there you are.' He knocked on their door. But there was nothing in response. Perhaps the others knew.

A burglary of hotel 'guests' were gathered in the kitchen.
“Anyone aware where Prachio went?” Met asked.
The lemur girl looked up, “Out.”
“Oh. Where?”
“Out.”
Right. That kind of out. Guess he could wait back at their room.
“Hey Goose, you hungry any?”
Met looked back, considering the guests as not s a source of information but, a whole, seven people sitting and having breakfast. So many. “Yeah,” Met lied. And joined. Porridge. The little appetite he had vanished. Though they poked it around with the provided spoon whilst the others talked.
“Hey Goose, something the matter?”
Met's lips pinched, “Ah-… alright.”
“Yeah this isn't really their cuisine. But I got some cartons and tin cans we were gonna throw out, that more your speed?”
Met scoffed. A few moments later looking up. Everyone 'e eyes were on them. Ponderous. “You're serious? I'm not a goat.”
“You eat whatever Prachio tells you to,” The girl from before noted.
“That's my job.”
“Hey,” a lobster boy next to him piped up, “Take it easy. Just because they do it, don't mean it is all they wanna eat,” he said, whilst, reaching… towards Met's… chest.
Met's palm swept through the air, swatting away their arm.
“Gyha… a-… aow…” His words were stifled, as if the shock outweighed the pain.
Met’s breath hung heavy in the kitchen air. Once more, all eyes on him. He scooched off the chair, and left. The clatter of his hooves filling the silence. Come to think of it, really seemed like he was going for his stomach, not his chest. Once around the corner he felt his torso again. The twins didn't peek out that much, they still couldn't see them, right? But, even if, what was the point of… Met kept walking, up the stairs, through the hall, back to their room… back… to bed.

~ 2 ~

“Prachio?”
Silence still. Met knew he'd heard someone walking outside. He tapped the code.
-Ckrktl- The latch gave way.
“If it isn't the unexpected, who's arrival has been long anticipated.”
“Do you… have time?”
Prachio's one eye blinked. A soft whir from his joint as the door opened.
“Proceed.”
Dark. Gloomy, the almost leaky roof was hinging a lot on that ‘almost’. Otherwise, their rooms were alike. Impressive how many bookshelves of registries managed to fit in this old servants quarter hall. Crammed around the lone table, stacked high with jottings. The only piece of colour was a burgundy couch, to which Prachio gestured.
“You discovered my gifts of hearthwarming; Trust it suits your dimensions?”
Met closed their fist. Their chest restrained tight. They had wrapped them too tight again. “I appreciate everything you do for me. But.”
Prachio gave him all the time they needed. Shuffling back into their work chair, cloak dragging across the floor.
“I've been through a lot lately.”
Prachio nodded.
“Could I ask one thing?”
Prachio remained silent.
“Why do you let me stay here?”
The ramshackle man shuffled out of the chair, gazing over to the couch. “Care to hear my justifications, or would you regale me with your own view?”
Met sighed as he sat down. Course he was gonna be difficult with this. “Because, You haven't met someone better at disposing evidence and turning it useful.”
Prachio was silent.
“Because, if you work hard enough with me, I could actually produce valid currency?”
Prachio was silent.
“Because you pity me…?”
“Pity.”
Met sighed.
“Peculiar word, Pity. A phrase of relation with a modicum of understanding. Though tastes desolate, unspoken as if spat in a dry mouth.”
“So it is not.”
“Certainly.”
Met smacked his lips. “Right. Everyone has a purpose and reason to their actions. Think I remember you saying that? Back in Utland, in Beurua. I was just a kid then. But now, all grown up, pity should be running out by now…”
Prachio's eye coursed. “Would you prefer to be alleviated from your assignments?”
Met blinked. “Huh?”
“Without Met none is capable of fulfilling your assignments, Met’s tasks would be delegated elsewhere. The hotel for all has a place for you, always. This place and its tasks do not belong to Met.”
Met gritted his teeth.
“I take it, you do wish for a break in assignments?”
“Don't. Sorry I even brought it up…”
Prachio offered Met a hand. He took it. Holding it for a moment. Then another. Perhaps it was manipulation. Or perhaps, it didn't matter.

Back in Met's room, rested another black sack, filled and sagging. More evidence. Though, on top, rested a small, citrine hued wheel. A chunk of cheese, with a note in cursive. 'Palette cleanser'.
Met took in a deep breath. Locked the door. And peeled off their wrappings; they had a job to do, and it was easier if nothing obstructed her chest.
If that is what had to be done, so be it. He'd eat until she did not feel empty anymore.

~ 3 ~

-Aaahhouraaalp- Met belched, shifting back into bed as he let his stomach deflate. -Twnwng- Until it met with the solid congestion of a bloated meal his stomach'd packed in. The gut jostling in the belch and landing as a dome of clay on their lap. “Haa, that's better,” he grumbled, gnawing at what was left of the button cheese. If he told himself enough times, perhaps it would become true.
A knock at the door. “Hey there, you in there?”
Met huffed. Couldn't they leave him a moment alone to diges-.
“Met?”
Met? They didn't call him, goose? Or goat? “Yeah?”
“Oh, so you are in there,” the voice, along with the faint clatter of carapace was familiar. The Lobster boy... the one he had so, rudely swatted. “Just came to ask, lunch and all's done. Iffen you wanna help out with the dishes?”
Met scoffed into a smile. “What in, you're telling me you are trying to comfort me, by asking to do the dishes together?”
There was a moment of silence, filled only by a faint clatter. “It's something to do.”
This time, it was a real chuckle. “Okay, you're on.”